


Merited Partiality

by clear_as_starlight



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: (probably), Canon Era, Historical Inaccuracy, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, brief mention of suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 188,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26061721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clear_as_starlight/pseuds/clear_as_starlight
Summary: Hamilton is staring at him straight on, unashamed, eyes glinting. “Alexander Hamilton, at your service. I think it be a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”Laurens hesitantly closes his hand around Hamilton’s and shakes, once, then withdraws. “John Laurens, at yours. And likewise, I should hope.”As a small, teasing smirk starts to creep over Hamilton’s face, and a fiery amusement steals into his eyes, Laurens thinks:This can only end badly.In other words, the author is a sucker for canon era Hamilton/Laurens (and isn't sorry)
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Comments: 346
Kudos: 332





	1. Pater Familias

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! It seems that my brain can’t get away from Hamilton at the moment, or the excellent territory to explore that is Hamilton/Laurens. I’m a sucker for canon era stuff, so I thought I’d give it a go. It’s the first proper multi-chapter fic I’ve posted also, so be kind haha 
> 
> This will incorporate historical events (it's not musical based, bar some references maybe), and I’ll try to be somewhat historically accurate, but considering how much research it took just to get started, I have a feeling it may fall to the wayside a bit as I get caught up in the plot. Accuracy might also suffer for deliberate plot convenience!
> 
> Fic title is from that letter Hamilton sent Laurens. You know the one ;)

_City Tavern  
August 5th 1777_

_Sir,_

_Your favour of Yesterday came to my hands late in the Afternoon. For reasons unnecessary to mention, I mean to delay the actual Appointment of my fourth Aide-de-Camp a while longer; but if you will do me the honour to become a member of my Family, you will make me very happy, by your Company and assistance in that Line as an Extra Aid and I shall be glad to receive you in that capacity whenever it is convenient to you._

_For the polite expressions contained in your Letter respecting myself, you will be pleased to accept the sincere thanks of Sir, Your most obt hble servt_

_G. Washington_

He reads it over and over again.

This is his chance.

His chance to _matter_.

***

_Philadelphia  
August 9th 1777_

The sun has not yet risen when John Laurens finishes burdening his horse and packing what little he plans to take with him into the saddlebags. It must be nearing five in the morn, and he knows he has a full day’s leisurely ride ahead of him to the Continental Army’s current location, all going as it should.  
  
As he goes to mount up, he hesitates, digging out the letter he has placed close to his breast, and reads it over once more. Phrases jump out at him, as he unconsciously checks the tightness of the girth one last time.

_I mean to delay the actual Appointment of my fourth Aide-de-Camp a while longer…if you will do me the honour to become a member of my Family, you will make me very happy._

And:

_As an Extra Aid…I shall be glad to receive you._

Laurens huffs.

An extra aide-de-camp—no, not even that. A volunteer aide-de-camp, not officially an extra, truly.  
  
The volunteer aspect is, of course, not the element of all this he takes offence to. He meant to offer himself as a volunteer regardless. Knowing how Congress already struggles with payment of soldiers who require it more urgently than he, Laurens could not accept payment in good conscience.  
  
No, what troubles him is the position itself. He came all this way—left his poor pregnant wife, she of much better character than he, deserving more than he can give—to fight for his country, this new nation they wish to create. And yet, he is already thwarted in this mission by his father.  
  
And now his father, bringing to bear what power he wields as a Continental Congress delegate, has secured him a position he is sure better men work towards, and who will likely now resent him for it.  
  
In truth, Laurens resents _himself_ for it, as he would much prefer entry into the Continental Army as a lower ranked soldier, an opportunity to prove his worth, than be forced to instead prove he is equal to his father’s machinations, and better than they would portray him.  
  
Worse, as a volunteer aide, his place will be away from the field, writing and delivering missives. Whilst this be important work, he had wished to make his mark in battle; even better were he to die whilst fighting, glorified for his willingness to sacrifice his life in exchange for freedom.  
  
His father, knowing his temperament in this manner, has prevented him from seizing the opportunity to be his own man, standing on the virtues of his own name, rather than that of Henry Laurens.  
  
Laurens sighs, folds the letter up again. He ought to be away now, without delay, else he not make it to the encampment before dark.  
  
He also ought to be away if he wishes to avoid farewelling his father, which he does.  
  
Laurens places his boot in the stirrup and hoists himself up. With nary a backwards glance, he leaves the stables of City Tavern behind, safe in the knowledge that his father still slumbers.

***

It had turned into a very pleasant day, Laurens thinks, as he listens to a soft breeze sigh through the densely packed tree tops. Not too hot for an August summer, and much preferable to the sort of weather he soldiered through as a child in Charleston; though equally, he supposes winter may great him with a far harsher chill.  
  
He grimaces. Something to look forward to.  
  
His horse nickers softly, and shakes its head slightly, startling Laurens from his reverie. He sits up straighter, and squints through the trees.  
  
By the sun’s positioning, readying itself towards setting, but not yet beginning to do so, he guesses it to be close to six thirty in the evening, and if he is not mistaken, he should be—  
  
Ah, yes.  
  
Ahead, he spies off-white streaks, coalescing into rows and rows of canvas tents through the dark-light-dark of the trees.  
  
This should also mean—  
  
“I ask that you halt, Sir!”  
  
Sentries.  
  
Laurens feels a shiver of relief, met equally with a gasp of apprehension.  
  
He has made it, then.  
  
To the Continental Army, Washington, and the War.  
  
The making of him, he is sure, and his noble end, should the feeling that he was never meant for old age prove true.  
  
He tugs the reins gently and pulls up, as two men step out from behind a rough-hewn log barrier. Both men wield muskets, and watch him warily. The blues of their coats vary, and one looks in sore need of replacement.  
  
“Sir,” says the one who spoke before. “I ask you to please name yourself, and your business here, else turn back.”  
  
Laurens feels a wild grin creep over his face.  
  
_He is here_.  
  
“Evening, gentlemen,” he says softly. “I am John Laurens.” He reaches into his breast pocket. The paper has been warmed by its closeness to his chest, his heart. “General Washington has asked me here, as a volunteer.”  
  
He passes the letter carefully to the first sentry, who lowers his musket and nods once, sharply, looking it over.  
  
“Aye, we’s were told to be on lookout for you, Sir.”  
  
Laurens presses his lips together. “I have no commission; it is I that should be calling you Sir.”  
  
The sentry only huffs. His eyes sparkle with mirth. “I’d think not, Sir. I be knowing who your father is.”  
  
Laurens feels himself freeze, but forces a neutral expression.  
  
Already, it seems he will be judged on the merits of his father.  
  
The sentry finishes reading the paper, nods again. “Jamison, get here!” he calls over his shoulder. A fairly young boy scampers up, maybe ten? Twelve? He is small, fair, and more freckles than skin. A drummer boy, perhaps? A messenger? Not a slave, thank the Lord.  
  
“Aye, Sir?”  
  
The sentry waves a hand at Laurens. “You be taking the gentleman’s horse and baggage. See it gets to whichever tent he’s assigned.”  
  
Laurens shakes his head. “I am quite able—”  
  
But the sentry only laughs, cutting him off. “Aye, but the General’s wanting you straight away, I’m sure.”  
  
Laurens frowns, but obliges by dismounting, handing his horse’s reigns to the boy. He glances around, a bit uncertain. “I am to meet General Washington now?”  
  
The sentry nods. “Aye, post-haste.”  
  
Laurens nods. “And where—?”  
  
The second sentry finally speaks. He is clearly the younger of the two; younger than even Laurens’ twenty-three years.  
  
“You’ll know it, Sir.”  
  
Laurens must look as bewildered as he feels. “I will?”  
  
The second sentry laughs. “Indeed. Headquarters is the biggest tent.”  
  
“And the loudest,” grins the first sentry.  
  
“The loudest—?”  
  
“Aye.” The first sentry winks. “A certain Lieutenant Colonel. You’ll see.”  
  
They both wave him through, then set themselves back to watch.  
  
Laurens dithers for a moment, staring in wonder at the bustling camp.  
  
Certainly, it is magnificent.  
  
Not clean, that is a surety; mud churned up by all the pairs of feet, and the smell of unwashed bodies mingling with that of slaughtered animals, and gunpowder.  
  
The feel of the camp, though, the clear action, urgency and haste, the knowledge of what is being fought here, what ideals are at stake; it gets under Laurens’ skin, pulses through his veins, sings:  
  
_You’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive_.  
  
He has felt nothing like it before.  
  
He grins fiercely.  
  
With that, he starts to make his way down what appears to be the main thoroughfare, narrowly avoiding being hit with the end of a large log as he does so. Curious gazes catch on his civilian clothes, and he hopes he is able to change fairly quickly, if only to avoid standing out too much.

The sentries are correct in their assurance Laurens would know headquarters when he saw it. It is indeed the largest tent by far, and two men stand guard outside it—Washington’s life-guards? As he approaches slowly, he can also _hear_ and assumes this is what the sentries meant by loud.  
  
As he gives his name to the guards, men are clearly arguing inside, at boisterous, indignant volume.  
  
“He has already tried this with Somerset Court House, Sir. We ought not to let them catch us with such a similar feint!”  
  
A second voice, even louder, more passionate. “Sir, what is being said is folly. Why, even Greene agrees—”  
  
“General Greene,” a more measured tone corrects mildly.  
  
The second voice again. “General Greene, then. He says, and I am like to agree, that we had intelligence suggesting Somerset were a feint—the lack of weaponry and supplies, et cetera—but we lack that intelligence in this case!”  
  
“I concur,” says another voice, softly.  
  
The first voice, again. “You suggest, then, that Howe will _not_ sail up the Hudson to aid Burgoyne? That is where the folly lies, Hamilton. And you—”  
  
The second voice—Hamilton?—responds hotly. “I do not say that, but I only suggest that we lack the means to agree this be Howe’s goal with certainty! If we move men, and then he sails elsewhere, say to Philadelphia, and we have moved up the Hudson—”  
  
“Gentlemen,” interrupts the measured voice. “This argument shall be continued later, when cooler heads prevail.”  
  
“But, Sir—”  
  
“Later, Hamilton. For now—John Laurens?”  
  
Laurens starts at his name, flinches guiltily at having possibly been caught eavesdropping on what is clearly army strategy.  
  
“You can enter.” One of the guards motions at the tent, peeling the flap back.  
  
Laurens takes a deep breath, pauses, then ducks under the canvas.  
  
He blinks dramatically as his eyes adjust to the reduced light, the last rays of the day barely penetrating the canvas walls. Candlelight flickers, but it is not yet dark enough for it to help matters much except to distract the eye.  
  
Four men stand in front of him, three of whom are still bent over a table, prodding and frowning at a map that is scattered with different pieces. Four small desks lie on the outer edges of the tent, spaced rather haphazardly, stacked with many pieces of opened and unopened correspondence.  
  
The three men bent over the map stand up abruptly, once they come to the realisation that Laurens has entered.  
  
Laurens clasps his hands behind his back, to keep from fidgeting.  
  
The fourth man, the one who stands before Laurens, watching him with keen eyes, taller than even Laurens by at least two inches, he knows to be the Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army: His Excellency, General George Washington.  
  
“You are John Laurens?” Washington asks. His tone betrays nothing of his thoughts on the matter of _John Laurens_.  
  
“Indeed I am, Sir.” Laurens manages to reply. Though he has exchanged correspondence with the General, being in his presence is another experience entirely.  
  
Washington nods. “I am surprised you engendered with such haste to join us, as my letter can only have been received four days past, but I admit myself pleased at your dedication to our cause.”   
  
Laurens wills himself not to flush, cursing his fair complexion, and not for the first time. “I sought to volunteer, Sir, and so I am.”  
  
Washington hums noncommittedly, then gestures behind him at the other three men. “Your fellow aides-de-camp are not all present at this occasion, but introductions to those here can still be made.”  
  
The eldest of the three men steps forward. He looks to be closer to forty than thirty, with a long nose, and indignant eyes. His hair is powdered; the only one of those present to have done so, barring Laurens. He holds a hand out to Laurens, but his gaze is hard, and not particularly friendly.

“Joseph Reed, Adjunct-General of the Continental Army. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He looks anything but pleased, and Laurens shakes his hand with no small measure of trepidation. He identifies him as the first speaker in the overheard argument.  
  
Reed allows a tight smile, then nods to Washington, escaping out the tent door. Laurens stops himself turning to watch him go.  
  
Nothing is said for a moment, before one of the other two men step forward.  
  
“Major Benjamin Tallmadge,” he says jovially. “Director of Military Intelligence.”  
  
Military Intelligence?  
  
_Spies_.  
  
Laurens shudders inwardly. His is too brash for such work; knows the opinion of many about its being a dishonourable venture, and is surprised by this being Tallmadge’s purpose here. The man looks no older than Laurens, with an open, honest face—though perhaps this be a purposeful guise, if he is spymaster—and very blue eyes. His unpowdered hair is dark blond, with a plaited queue, small strands escaping to frame his face.  
  
_Pretty_ , Laurens’ subconscious whispers insidiously, and he blanches, avoids clenching his fists, turns his thoughts away, tries to think of anything else but how his mind and body continually betray him in this manner.  
  
He swallows and shakes Tallmadge’s hand quickly. “Pleased to be acquainted.”  
  
Tallmadge grins, his whole face lighting up, and Laurens starts reciting the names of native plants in his book on South Carolinian flora and fauna, alphabetically, so as to avoid thinking anything else.

“And I, with you. We are always in need of further assistance, and volunteers are the lifeblood that keeps this army flowing.”  
  
Laurens smiles tightly in response, his glance flitting to the as yet unintroduced fourth man, who can surely only be the ‘Hamilton’ of the previous argument.  
  
“Ah,” says Tallmadge, with a smile, noticing Laurens’ gaze. “This is Alexander Hamilton.”  
  
So, this _is_ the aforementioned Hamilton.  
  
He appears a very young man for such an important post, perhaps two or so years Laurens’ junior, with eyes of deep blue, heated and intense, seeming to shine with a fierce intelligence, and a strange sort of desperate hunger, though for what, Laurens cannot be sure. He is small of stature, maybe just pushing five foot six, but radiates enough barely suppressed energy to almost fill the tent with his presence, and his hair shines like flickering red-orange flames in the fading light.  
  
He is very—striking, for want of a better descriptor, though this hardly does him justice.  
  
Hamilton rolls his eyes at Tallmadge. “I am able to speak for myself, Tallmadge.”  
  
“ _Major_ Tallmadge,” Tallmadge replies, but Laurens can tell it is in jest. “No one who has ever heard you doubts your ability to speak, and speak at length, Hamilton.”  
  
Hamilton huffs, and Laurens sees Washington allow himself a tiny smile.  
  
When Hamilton’s eyes lock with Laurens’, however, his amused countenance fades. Instead, his eyes flash with what almost appears—resentment.  
  
_Oh_.  
  
And here, he had almost forgotten his fears about what his father’s name might provoke.  
  
“As the Major has said, I am Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton, Chief aide-de-camp to General Washington.” His tone is guarded, stiff, jaw tense. “And you are John _Laurens_.” There is unhidden emphasis in the manner with which Hamilton speaks _Laurens_.  
  
Laurens nods, warily. “Indeed.”  
  
Hamilton does not offer his hand.  
  
Laurens returns his hands behind his back.  
  
Tallmadge presses his lips together, expression appearing somewhat troubled, but unsurprised. He addresses himself to Washington. “Your Excellency, Sir, if I may ask your pardon? I am due to meet—” His eyes flick to Laurens carefully, “—One of my men.”  
  
“Certainly,” Washington allows. “If nothing more is of urgent import, I will ask you be here again sunrise tomorrow, so that we might discuss certain matters before camp vacates.”  
  
Tallmadge nods in acquiescence and strides decisively from the tent.  
  
Laurens is left nervously under Washington’s stern gaze, and Hamilton’s untrusting one.  
  
Washington is watching Hamilton thoughtfully. “I trust your journey was pleasant, Laurens?”  
  
Laurens nods. “Indeed, Sir, yes. It is not a difficult journey from Philadelphia, and the weather was enjoyable.”  
  
Hamilton’s head tilts slightly, eyes calculating. “You hail from Philadelphia?”  
  
Washington laughs quietly. “Nay, Alexander.”

At this, Hamilton seems…uncomfortable. Is it from Washington’s affectionate use of his Christian name? 

“The Laurens’ hail from Charleston. They are of South Carolinian lineage.” Laurens suspects Hamilton knew this, and was taunting Laurens with having to explain his family connection, but Washington seems content to treat it as simple ignorance. “Though you have lately been in Europe, have you not?” This is addressed to Laurens.  
  
“Yes, Sir. For my education in the law. I sailed for America as soon as I was able, though.”  
  
Washington nods. “Eager for a war?” His tone is dryly amused.  
  
Laurens blinks. “To risk myself for our country’s freedom? Certainly, Sir.”  
  
Hamilton’s eyes are narrowed. “You father is a Congress delegate, is he not? The man they say may be its next President?”  
  
Ah. So, Hamilton does know, and now pushes the direct route.  
  
“Yes,” Laurens replies stiffly, thinking on the man he refused to farewell. “That is he.”  
  
Washington is watching him. “I trust you will write your father often? Keep him well abreast of our situation?”  
  
Laurens feels his heart sink. It is true that he knows Washington mainly accepted him as a volunteer due to his father’s position, but now it seems he does not really care whether Laurens is competent or not, only that he can exploit this congressional connection for the army’s ends.  
  
“I will write when able.” He pauses. “Sir.”  
  
Hamilton’s eyes have narrowed further, but he says nothing.  
  
“That sounds satisfactory,” says Washington. “For now, you will volunteer amongst my aides-de-camp, assisting with their correspondence and the like.” He glances at Hamilton. “Hamilton, the hour grows late. With none of the other aides returned, perhaps you can show Laurens to his tent?”  
  
Hamilton frowns slightly. “Which tent is to be his tonight, Sir?”  
  
Washington almost looks _too_ innocent, at this question. “Why, Hamilton, he is to share yours, none of the other aides having a tent to themselves at present but you.”  
  
Hamilton’s mouth tightens. “Indeed, Sir, if you wish it.”  
  
“I do.”  
  
There is an awkward pause. Then:  
  
“Hamilton, you may show Laurens what his duties are to be in this office, once camp is resettled a couple days hence.”  
  
“Yes, Sir.” If Laurens is not mistaken, Hamilton has grit his teeth.  
  
“Well?” asks Washington.  
  
Hamilton casts a glance back at the desks. “I had not yet finished the letter you required for General Sullivan—”  
  
“Ah,” Washington draws himself up. “Finish that, then, for it is needed by tomorrow’s courier. Laurens, you may wait upon Hamilton until he ceases. I must locate Meade, for I have missives that require delivery to General Knox directly.”  
  
Laurens has heard of General Knox (a Brigadier General, not a Major General, if memory serves); the name having come up frequently amongst congress for his opposition to French commissions.  
  
“Yes, Sir.” Laurens says at the same time as Hamilton says: “If that is what you wish, Sir.”  
  
“It is.”  
  
With that, Washington’s impressive frame sweeps from the tent, and Laurens is left in the simmering rage that is Alexander Hamilton. 

Hamilton says nothing more to Laurens, only turning sharply on his heel to the messiest of the desks, before sitting and immediately setting to write.  
  
Laurens has never seen one write so fast, nor so furiously; so completely focused as to miss anything occurring around him.  
  
Indeed, Hamilton seems to have completely forgotten Laurens is present, and so he supposes he should stand until the man is done.  
  
He does not realise he has doomed himself to stand for what must be close to an hour, his pride too great to change his stance.  
  
That is, until:  
  
“Sit down, man, for God’s sake. You distract me with your looming.”  
  
Laurens’ feels his eyes narrow—clearly, he were not too great a distraction if it took Hamilton so long to notice—but he quickly picks the chair furthest from Hamilton, and contents himself by reciting the beginning of _Common Sense_ , the part of which he knows by memory.  
  
He has only finished the first paragraph when Hamilton interrupts. He has finally put down his quill. It is completely dark outside now, and the flickering candlelight highlights his sharp cheek bones.  
_  
Society in every state is a blessing, but Government, even in its best state, is but a necessary evil; in its worst state an intolerable one_ , Laurens recites desperately, _for when we suffer, or are exposed_ —

“You would risk your life for your country?” Hamilton’s voice interrupts, oddly mild.  
  
Laurens almost startles. “I—What?”  
  
Hamilton looks unimpressed. “That is what you spoke of to the General.”  
  
“Yes, indeed.” Laurens frowns. “And I stand by it.”  
  
“And yet,” says Hamilton, eyebrows raised. “You are here; arguably the safest position to hold in this army is that of aide-de-camp.” His tone is strangely bitter. “Would you not agree?”  
  
Laurens blinks, feels anger rise up. He shoves it down. It would not do to fight with one who is so clearly a favourite of the General’s, and it only his first day. “I would,” he responds carefully. “And whilst I am humbled by the General’s accepting me to this role, I had meant to volunteer as an unranked soldier.”  
  
“Hmm,” Hamilton is regarding Laurens thoughtfully, if still rather sullenly. “Why did you not, then?”  
  
Laurens grits his teeth. “My father—”  
  
“Ah, yes, your father.” Hamilton’s tone is cruelly mocking. “It would not do to have the son of Henry Laurens shot down like a common soldier, I imagine. But the appearance of aiding the cause, at no risk to his heir, now _that_ is—”  
  
“My father wished it, my father wrote Washington, and here I am.” Laurens knows his tone is too heated, but damn it all, he will _not_ have Hamilton accuse him of cowardice. “My father is an influential man, and a man like to thwart most anything I would wish to do of my own accord.” He bites his tongue.  
  
That was too much, too far, things revealed he ought not to a man he has only just been acquainted with. He glares into the shadows beneath the darkened canvas.  
  
Hamilton tilts his head, considering. “You are aware, then, that much of Washington’s decision to have you in this office was for your connection to Congress?”  
  
Laurens slumps. “I—yes. I had hoped that was not the case, but I—indeed.”  
  
Hamilton hums, taps a quill against his cheek. “I wonder, then, why you agreed?”  
  
Laurens sighs. “It were the only way my father would consent to my joining the cause. If I have opportunity to take the field, though, I will seize it without hesitance.”  
  
“There is nothing else alike to battlefield glory.” Hamilton’s tone grows steadily more passionate.  
  
“No, indeed,” agrees Laurens fiercely. “ _Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori_.”  
  
Hamilton looks surprised. “Horace, if I am not mistaken.”  
  
Laurens nods. “You are educated in the classics?”  
  
Hamilton’s face shutters strangely, eyes tightening. “Of a sort.”  
  
An odd silence falls.  
  
“I—” says Laurens, as Hamilton says: “Well—”  
  
Hamilton huffs. “I am done here.”  
  
Laurens only watches him as he starts to tidy the desk.  
  
Abruptly, he thinks:  
  
_I should like to draw him_.  
  
The thought throws him. He has not found the will to draw in many months, not since Frances, and Jemmy, and Martha, and—well.   
  
He clears his throat.  
  
Hamilton glances up, face irritated. “Yes?”  
  
Laurens shakes his head. “Nothing. I merely—a tickle.”  
  
Hamilton makes an unimpressed face. “Well, if you have quite vanquished your tickle, I am ready to show you to our tent.”  
  
Laurens gets to his feet, wincing at the stiffness.  
  
Hamilton’s grin is wry, mocking at his expense. “Sore, are we?”  
  
“A full day’s ride will create soreness,” Laurens retorts.  
  
“Ah, Laurens,” ridicules Hamilton. “Just wait until we must move the campaign, and spend days at a time in the saddle.”  
  
Laurens scrubs a hand over his face tiredly. He is not sure he will be able to deal with spending so much time in Hamilton’s company without punching him in the face, sooner rather than later. He will have to work hard at reigning in his tendency to be rash.  
  
He distracts himself by asking: “When did you join the cause?”  
  
Hamilton draws himself up proudly. “1775. My first campaign proper was of 1776, at Trenton.”  
  
Laurens is unwillingly surprised. An original patriot, then. “You have taken the field before?”  
  
“Indeed, in several battles.” Hamilton’s tone is proud, self-assured. “My actions at the Battle of Princeton, whence I stole cannons to aid an American victory, are what brought me to Washington’s attention.” He shoots a glance at Laurens. “I too would wish, very much so, to fight, and for a command, but I know the value of having my name attached to the General’s.” His gaze on Laurens turns hard, cold. “Though I doubt that be required for you, having come from just such an influential family.”  
  
_Damnation_.  
  
It seems Hamilton is exactly the kind of man Laurens feared resenting him; one of superior talent but likely lower social connections. One who must climb, and would see in Laurens one so privileged as to have everything given for simply wearing the right name.  
  
Laurens resents this, and resents his name, and acknowledges to himself there and then, that he will make these men respect him for _John_ and not _Laurens_.  
  
He is determined.  
  
  


They walk in silence through the darkened camp, nimbly avoiding groups of drunken men clustered around dwindling fires.  
  
The tent appears fairly small and, once Hamilton manages to light a candle, inside it appears as though a cannon has gone off. Papers and books lay strewn all over the floor, cover one of the cots, bury the travel writing desk. Laurens’ things have been placed on the empty cot, and he fervently hopes someone compensated Jamison for his time.  
  
Hamilton grimaces. “I—apologise. I did not realise you would be sharing with me.”  
  
“No?” jests Laurens. “I would not have guessed.”  
  
Hamilton huffs crossly, but does not appear truly offended. He begins to pick up various papers, placing some in the travel desk, others in piles under his cot, alongside several books.  
  
Laurens picks one up. “Plutarch’s _Lives_?” he asks curiously. “I see you are, in actuality, better versed in the classics than me, for I have never soldiered through this.”  
  
Hamilton snatches the book with a glare Laurens _thinks_ is playful. “Soldiering through, indeed. It is an interesting book!”  
  
“I do not refute that,” Laurens smirks. “Merely overly long winded.”  
  
Hamilton makes an indignant sound and shoves it under his cot. He turns to face Laurens angrily, eyes sparking, and oh _no_.  
  
Laurens resists the urge to clench his fists.  
  
Tallmadge may have been pretty, but Hamilton—  
  
He winces inwardly. He will chain his sins up tight, his unholy preferences, his blackened soul. It cannot wreck his chance here, not like it destroyed him and those he loved in Europe, tore a hole straight through his heart that still aches if he think on it too long.  
  
It will _not_.  
  
“I confess, I was set on your character, but truly I know not what to make of you, John Laurens,” Hamilton finally says, anger leaking away slowly, though his face seems to suggest it infuriates him that he does not.  
  
Laurens sits heavily on the cot, and starts removing his boots, if only to hide the slight blush to his cheeks. “Nor I you, Hamilton.”  
  
Hamilton taps a foot on the ground thoughtfully, before also sitting on his cot. Laurens looks up. Hamilton is chewing his lip, head tilted, shining strands of hair brushing his forehead, and Laurens forces his gaze to the floor.  
  
A hand is thrust into his vision, and he looks up, startled.  
  
Hamilton is staring at him straight on, unashamed, eyes glinting. “Alexander Hamilton, at your service. I think it be a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”  
  
Laurens hesitantly closes his hand around Hamilton’s and shakes, once, then withdraws. “John Laurens, at yours. And likewise, I should hope.”  
  
As a small, teasing smirk starts to creep over Hamilton’s face, and a fiery amusement steals into his eyes, Laurens begins listing native plants over and over again.  
  
He is so—  
  
This can only end badly.  
  
And yet, he is suddenly determined to understand the mysteries and contradictions that appear so oddly confined, so poorly chained, inside one Alexander Hamilton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not entirely sure if Joseph Reed was working alongside the aides at this point, but he’s the only one I don’t mind making antagonistic, so there we go.
> 
> Also, sue me, but I can’t imagine Benjamin Tallmadge looking like anyone but Seth Numrich from Turn, so that’s what I’m working with here.
> 
> Excerpts from:   
> -“George Washington to John Laurens, 5 August 1777” https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/03-10-02-0527  
> -Common Sense by Thomas Paine  
> \- “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori” is from Odes (III.2.13) by the Roman poet Horace; it is also the inscription on Laurens’ gravestone :(
> 
> I have a few chapters written already, but I’ll probably be posting only once a week (unless I get super excited) so I can try and keep chapters in back up :)


	2. Washington’s Aides-de-Camp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to another instalment of why is Hamilton the only thing that motivates me? 
> 
> It hasn’t been quite a week yet, but I’ve realised Fridays are possibly better for me, so early update :)
> 
> Again, don’t mind creative liberties taken; I’m trying my best, but I also want a plot, and to not feel too overwhelmed by historical facts!

_Continental Army Encampment  
Near Germantown   
August 10th 1777_

Laurens is awoken the next morn by loud banging and clattering, as well as shouts and swears. He opens his eyes slowly, momentarily disorientated by the canvas that greets him, before memory floods back.   
  
_He is in Washington’s camp_.   
  
He blinks a few times, before stretching slowly, wincing as his body protests heavily, both from its treatment in the saddle, and the small, hard cot, so far removed from any bed he has ever slept in.   
  
He hears a dryly amused chuckle, and rolls over.  
  
Hamilton, of course. He had almost forgotten his accommodation were not his alone.   
  
Hamilton is already up and dressed, though the light suggests it cannot be too far past dawn. He sits on his cot, still bootless, travel writing desk nestled in his lap, fingers already ink-stained.   
  
“And so, he rouses,” Hamilton laughs. “I confess myself surprised that the noise had not yet woken you.”   
  
Laurens sits up blearily, pushing strands of hair, now lacking powder, from his face. “And what _is_ all the noise, pray tell?”   
  
Hamilton puts the writing desk down on the cot, before reaching for his boots, which he has left laying haphazardly under the single chair. “Did none mention? We have lodgings for the General secured eighteen miles or so further north, in Warwick Township.”   
  
Laurens frowns. He has no knowledge of such a place, but does now recall mention of the army vacating its current encampment. “We are moving so soon?”   
  
Hamilton is still fiddling with his boots, and as such, does not look up. “Indeed. In any case, we are in need of a better place from which to ascertain Howe’s movements, since he is but fifty miles from Delaware Capes; some suspect he may choose to campaign further north. New York bound, as it were.”   
  
Laurens pushes back the blankets and shivers slightly. The air is crisper than he would like, whispers of fall on the breeze. “But you do not?”   
  
Now, Hamilton looks up, startled. “Pardon?”   
  
Laurens swings his legs over the cot, grasping for his stockings and vest. “You do not believe General Howe will go north.” He glances quickly at Hamilton, then back at his clothes. “I only—I overheard some of your argument, yesterday.”   
  
Hamilton lets out a snort and stands. Laurens watches him carefully, uncertain if he has spoken out of turn.   
  
“You were eavesdropping, Sir.”   
  
Laurens winces. “I did not mean—” He trails away. “I apologise. You were quite…loud.”  
  
“Ha.” Hamilton appears slightly amused, at this. “That is indeed true, I confess. What you overheard—” He presses his lips together. “No, you are correct. I should think Howe more likely to turn his gaze on Philadelphia, on the Capital, on Congress. New York is all but secured by the British, and I should not believe Burgoyne requires Howe in his venture. Additionally, American moral should fall substantially should we lose Philadelphia to the British, and were I in British command—Well. I am not.”   
  
Laurens stares. The fire and passion with which Hamilton speaks his ideas is like none he has heard before; his surety in his ability to grasp tactical objectives almost arrogant.  
  
Hamilton then chuckles wryly, the fervently charged moment fading. “But I am not a field strategist, of course, merely a well-read aide. And our being slightly further north does not prevent us from moving to intercept either course of action.”   
  
Laurens understands nothing of this enough to comment, so he merely settles for nodding in what he hopes is a wise manner, before reaching to button his vest.   
  
Hamilton is now tying his queue, the red of his hair seeming even more unique in the early morning sun. “You had better arise and dress quicker, else the tent be dismantled with you still abed.”   
  
Laurens responds to this by hastening his stockings up his legs and securing them where they meet his breeches. He glances up as Hamilton gathers several sealed letters and makes to leave the tent.   
  
“Am I to stay here, then?”   
  
Hamilton pauses, glances down at his letters. “Aye, for now. I must hasten these to the morning’s courier, but I shall return soon enough, as I too must pack away my belongings before they are packed without need of me.”   
  
Laurens lets out a small laugh. “And I—am I to assume I need not powder?”   
  
Hamilton’s eyes flit to Laurens’ hair and something of the intensity in them makes him feel strangely warm. “Powder is costly and difficult to source on campaign. You should look further out of place with it, than without.” His eyes very briefly glance down Laurens’s face, then back up again.  
  
“Besides, your colour suits you far better without.”   
  
With that, he strides from the tent resolutely.   
  
Laurens is left sitting in a small kind of shock, Hamilton’s odd compliment ringing in his ears.   
  
_Calm yourself, John. He means nothing by it but a simple kindness; do not read anything untoward from it.  
_  
Still, he cannot help but make sure the last of yesterday’s powder is truly gone as he secures his queue with a blue ribbon.   
  
Finally, he is all dressed, but for his coat. He kneels down beside the cot and pulls out his small trunk from whence he shoved it before he collapsed into bed the night prior.   
  
Inside lays his blue army coat. His father commissioned it, as it would not behove a Laurens to be seen in the Continental Army lacking proper attire, no matter his personal thoughts on his son’s actions.   
  
Laurens lifts it out and regards it carefully. It has none of the markings of commission, unlike the two golden epaulettes that adorn Hamilton’s shoulders and denote him a Lieutenant Colonel; nor does he own the green riband that indicates an aide-de-camp, with him only a volunteer.  
  
Nonetheless, as he pulls it over his shoulders, he feels a strange sensation of personal pride fall over him, something he has felt but rarely in his life.   
  
He is here to fight for a cause that matters, and this blue marks it so.

  
Laurens busies himself by making sure his meagre belongings are locked away in his trunk, and the linens from his cot are stripped and folded. He has to fend off several men who wish to dismantle their tent, as Hamilton has not yet returned. He considers tidying Hamilton’s things for him, but decides against it, feeling it too presumptuous after such a short acquaintance as theirs.  
  
Eventually, Hamilton does make his return, strands of red hair already fly away, a pinched expression on his face.   
  
He says nothing to Laurens; only begins packing his things rather heatedly.   
  
“Hamilton?” Laurens tries, hesitantly.   
  
Hamilton waves him off impatiently. “It is nothing; worry not.” His tone contradicts this, and in his apparent anger, Laurens detects hints of an accent he cannot quite place, but says nothing of it.  
  
He fidgets uncertainly, unsure whether he ought to step outside.   
  
“Stop that,” Hamilton bites out. “I am not like to attack you, Laurens.”   
  
Laurens blinks. The same odd hunger from last night seems to flare out of Hamilton’s frame again; anger clearly an emotion that he is like to feel, and feel rapidly.   
  
“I did not think you were,” Laurens finally responds, coldly.  
  
At his tone, Hamilton looks up, and sighs, posture slumping. “I apologise, I merely—as I said, it matters not; I will endeavour to obtain better mood.”  
  
Laurens only nods. He is still not entirely sure how he finds Hamilton. The Lieutenant Colonel seems a relatively private man, one not likely to reveal overly much of himself, and yet his emotions seem obvious, and ill contained.   
  
A contradiction, indeed.   
  
Hamilton slams his trunk shut, pressing down hard so as to fit the numerous books inside. He glances over at Laurens, expression now light and teasing.   
  
“I should mention you look well in uniform, Laurens.”   
  
Laurens startles, desperately tries not to blush. “I—well—thank you,” he manages, tripping over his own tongue.   
  
Hamilton only smirks, and Laurens curses his inability to respond well to any boyish teasing of this sort, without feeling shame that he secretly wishes it were sincere.

***

It takes them near a day and a half to pack up and move the entire army only eighteen miles to the north—though Laurens suspects they do not move with particular haste at this time—with the vanguard arriving outside Warwick Township at nearing noon of the 11th. The widow of John Moland, a sadly deceased Philadelphian lawyer, has graciously offered Washington and his staff lodging in her home.   
  
Laurens is with said vanguard, riding amongst other unranked soldiers, though most of them have no mounts, and so have walked the entirety of the way. Lacking the time to be acquainted with the other aides, or his duties, before they marched, Laurens had been sent here, with assurances he would be settled as an aide once Warwick was reached; the irony feels clear, as this is where he should have liked to be before his father stepped in and wrote Washington.

As such, Laurens has not seen hide nor hair of Hamilton since the encampment were uprooted, and neither has he seen, nor been sent for, by Washington. He has made fair acquaintance with the men he marches amongst, but it seems little worth the effort to find fast friends, as he will soon be snatched from their midst and lodged in an actual house. This being something he feels slightly uncomfortable about, as he watches men pitch their tents, grumbling on sore feet and ruined boots.  
  
As he observes a particularly young man—surely not yet eighteen—struggle with a tent, and ponders offering his assistance, he is tapped on the shoulder and startles, spinning round.   
  
He is greeted with an enthusiastically smiling man, who appears in perhaps his late twenties or early thirties. As everyone else, his hair is not powdered, and it is tired back very neatly, not a strand out of place. He has a long chin and nose, but would still be perhaps deemed handsome enough.   
  
“You are John Laurens?” the man asks.   
  
Laurens nods his agreement. “Indeed I am.”   
  
“Wonderful,” exclaims the man, sticking out a hand. “Richard Kidder Meade, another of the General’s marvellous aides. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”   
  
Laurens blinks, startles at Meade’s teasing exuberance, shakes his hand. He wonders what Hamilton must make of this man. “Pleased to make yours.”   
  
Meade chuckles. “I confess myself curious to meet you, as Hamilton spoke of little else on our journey.”   
  
Laurens is confused. “Hamilton spoke of me?”   
  
Meade laughs fully now. “Oh, indeed, and at length, as he is wont to. He does not seem to know whether he ought to hate and resent you for your name and influence, or respect and admire your steadfast devotion to our cause, your willingness to risk all.”   
  
Laurens finds himself embarrassed, and flushes. “I—Ah—That is to say—I endeavour to hope you will judge me by my capabilities, rather than by Hamilton’s words alone.”   
  
Meade’s eyes are sparkling with mirth. “Never fear, Laurens. I have learnt that little of _le petit lion_ ’s words should be heeded when he is in a fit of confused passionate judgement; I only find myself marvelling on any man that can inspire so many words on one subject to pour forth from him.”   
  
Laurens frowns, not entirely sure whether Meade jests or not. Instead, he asks: “ _Le petit lion_?”  
  
Meade grins. “A most excellent Frenchman’s nickname for Hammie; fitting, is it not?”   
  
Again, Laurens finds himself unsure of his standing, having little experience with the easy camaraderie Meade seems to feel is necessary. “I think it so?” he replies, tentatively.   
  
Meade’s expression appears warm. “You understand this all a joke, I hope? We are all fond of Hamilton truly, equal parts amused and impressed. He makes a man feel of inadequate intelligence with ease.”   
  
“Indeed.” Laurens smiles, now. If the rest of the aides-de-camp are as easy tempered as Meade, he should perhaps enjoy his post after all.

Meade walks with Laurens through the sea of undulating white, the two of them ducking over and under ropes and canvas, past slaves unloading wagons, and men sweating in the sun. They speak little, though Meade does inquire after his father—not unexpected—and asks Laurens a question or two of Europe, and Geneva, before their feet bring them to the door of the Moland house. The house is of lovely robust stonework, and various servants, slaves and soldiers hurry in and out the front.   
  
“We are fortunate to have a roof to sleep under, are we not?” Laurens remarks softly.  
  
Meade smiles. “Aye, though we do seem able to find many a patriot who will share their home with General Washington. Provided we pay our own expenses,” he finishes dryly.   
  
Laurens turns this over in his mind. “I did not much mind sleeping in the tent.”   
  
Meade huffs a laugh. “Indeed, but you forget it is August. Come January, you will not feel the same.”   
  
Laurens goes to reply, but is interrupted by a shout.   
  
“Meade! Hurry yourself over here, for I do not much feel like lugging your trunk upstairs, and may instead decide it be more convenient to simply drop it from height.”   
  
Meade hurries through the door, yelling. “Tilghman! If you so much as put a hand to my trunk!”   
  
“You act as children!” chides another voice, though Laurens knows not who.  
  
Laurens is left standing awkwardly outside the door, unsure whether he ought to enter, when a voice he recognises calls behind him.   
  
“Laurens!”   
  
Laurens turns quickly, shoulder colliding with one Alexander Hamilton’s chest.   
  
Hamilton makes an _oof_ noise, and then laughs heartily, eyes sparkling. “A days ride amongst the rabble and you cannot even stand like a gentleman.”   
  
“I apologise,” stutters Laurens. He feels he has been apologising for many ridiculous things lately.  
  
Hamilton only grins wider. “I jest, Laurens. Well? How do you find being a part of the Continental Army?”   
  
This is a very different Hamilton, Laurens realises. That desperate hunger has gone from his face, making him look even younger than he surely is. He seems near to bursting with energy and excitement, almost frenzied, and Laurens has decided on another word for Hamilton.  
  
_Mercurial_.   
  
It seems as fitting as any other.   
  
“I doubt I have enough experience yet to form any such opinion; but I would admit it feels truly a part of history.”   
  
Hamilton tilts his head. “Ah! Yes, I appreciate that descriptor. I should hope we both someday wind up on history’s crowded pages.”   
  
“Indeed,” agrees Laurens, though he feels that perhaps Hamilton would rather _create_ the history that shall be written, whereas he feels content to be simply recorded a part of it.  
  
Perhaps he shall be marked significant enough to be documented in Hamilton’s history? Strangely, he hopes so.   
  
Hamilton rubs his hands together. “Well? Correspondence waits for no man, and I believe Harrison has already begun the set-up of the room we shall use.” He darts through the door, the force of his presence pulling Laurens in behind him, as though they complimentary magnets.

Inside the house is just as busy as out, though Hamilton leads him surely through the hall to a room towards the back, fairly close to what Laurens supposes the kitchen. In it, several men are shoving desks and chairs around, bags of orders and letters being quickly unpacked and unfolded, relegated to different desks; likely dependent on who will take up residence where, and whom the author and intended recipient may be.  
  
“Gentlemen!” calls Hamilton, raising his hands in the air.   
  
Every man in the room pauses in his unpacking, looks up. Laurens spies Meade, who sends Hamilton a sarcastic glare.   
  
“Hammie, what theatrics are these? Come and assist before the General is unfortunate enough to enter into this paper maelstrom.”   
  
Hamilton waves a dismissive hand. “Give me but a moment. I must introduce to you all our new volunteer aide, John Laurens.” He gestures at Laurens, who feels himself stand taller as every gaze in the room lands on him, assessing.   
  
“So, this be the famous John Laurens,” says the man standing closest to Meade. He has sandy blond hair and a round face. “I know not whether to despise you or herald you as per Hamilton’s ramblings.”   
  
Laurens blinks. “I am not sure—”   
  
The man’s face splits into a gentle grin. “Do not answer that; I jest. You shall have to adjust to this; our role would be far less entertaining if we did not provide our own amusement.” He steps forward, offers a hand. “Tench Tilghman; I too am a volunteer aide.”   
  
Laurens is surprised at this, and notices the distinct lack of epaulettes on Tilghman’s coat—though he does sport a riband—but Meade breaks in with an eye roll. “Yes, a volunteer aide since 1776; Tilghman be more an aide-de-camp than the rest of us, but will still refuse a commission.”   
  
“Did you drop his trunk?” Laurens remembers, then regrets, as many puzzled expressions land on him.   
  
However, an oddly delighted look creeps onto Tilghman’s face. He barks a laugh. “I think you shall fit with us just fine, Laurens. And no, I did not drop Meade’s trunk, much as he deserved it.”   
  
At this, understanding jumps across Meade’s expression, and he, too, laughs. “My trunk deserves no such abuse.”   
  
“I did not say the trunk did; but that you did.”   
  
“You wound me!”   
  
“Are we still to play children?” The exasperated voice is the same that scolded before. A man with sharp, dark eyebrows and quick eyes has spoken. He gestures to himself. “Colonel Robert Hanson Harrison, the General’s Military Secretary. I had hoped for some more maturity to be injected by your presence, but I fear…” He winks at Laurens, so that Laurens may know he only teases.   
  
The rest of the introductions come quick, and Laurens can only hope he will remember them. Aside from Harrison, Meade and Tilghman, a further aide is introduced as John Fitzgerald, and there is mention of a Captain Caleb Gibbs, who is not present, but that commands Washington’s life-guards, and also the household accounts. Hamilton and Laurens appear the youngest by at least seven, eight years.  
  
“You will also soon meet Joseph Reed, I would imagine,” adds Meade.  
  
Laurens nods. “I met him when I first arrived.” He does not miss the quick glances shared between the other aides.   
  
“I confess myself surprised that did not discourage you at the very start,” Tilghman mutters.   
  
Harrison shoots a warning glance, and a rebuked _T_ _ilghman_ , but it is half-hearted.  
  
Meade has managed to clear and sort the desk he has presumably chosen enough to sit, and he does, tapping his fingers on the surface. “You were greeted with Hamilton and Reed on arrival?”   
  
“Yes, Sir,” says Laurens, for he was.   
  
Fitzgerald chuckles. “If such a pair as a greeting party did not dissuade you, we have received a valuable man indeed.”   
  
“You wrong me,” interjects Hamilton.   
  
“I think not,” responds Fitzgerald, seeming to deliberately provoke. “For your decided enmity towards Laurens were legendary before he even set foot amongst our ranks.”   
  
Hamilton’s cheeks flush, rather prettily— _amaranthus crassipes, aristida stricta, balduina atropurpurea, balduina uniflora_ _, think not on fiery hair and reddened cheeks_ —and then he scowls.   
  
“What were I meant to think; Henry Laurens’ son being forced upon us with no recommendation but his own?”  
  
There is an uncomfortable silence, and Hamilton flushes further when he realises what he has insinuated about the man standing beside him.  
  
Laurens takes pity. “I would think the same, Sir. Indeed, I myself were resentful of his—input.”   
  
There is another silence, but sharper.   
  
Hamilton draws himself up, though even in doing so, he only comes to the base of Laurens’ forehead. A proud expression drifts over his features, though his eyes portray an odd look of rejection. “I must still publicly apologise, for I spoke at length on your character, and disparaged it, before we were even acquainted.” His chin raises, his eyes challenge.  
  
Laurens smiles gently, and holds out a hand, ready to shake Hamilton’s for the second time in almost as many days.   
  
“There is nothing to forgive, for such scepticism were likely warranted.”  
  
Hamilton seems nearly—relieved, but that cannot be true, for he appears such a confident visage. He shakes Laurens’ hand, palm warm, fingers almost delicate.  
  
Laurens withdraws his own as quick as is proper, heart beating faster than it should, and he internally curses.   
  
Harrison is nodding in approval. “Now that is done and forgotten, shall we finally begin our work? Laurens, are you by any chance fluent in French?”   
  
Laurens is momentarily disorientated by the change in conversation, but nods. “I am, Sir.”   
  
“Wonderful!” exclaims Tilghman. “The burden will not rest entirely on Hamilton and I, then.”   
  
Laurens turns to Hamilton. “You are fluent?”   
  
Hamilton’s mouth tightens. “I am.”   
  
Laurens decides it not wise to enquire as to why that may be.   
  
“If that is the case,” Harrison continues. “You may share a desk with Hamilton, for he deals with much of the General’s French correspondence and translation, the General being not at all fluent. As Hamilton is to instruct you in the task of an aide, this fits perfect.”  
  
Hamilton seems set to refuse, but abruptly shuts his mouth and clears a space on the desk that lies closest the door. He drags another chair over, and practically shoves Laurens into it.

Laurens spends what is left of the day—indeed, until it must be nearing midnight!—reading Hamilton’s work; how he imitates the General, how he sets out his translations, what tone he takes. He practises his own work, with Hamilton promising to read it over and offer advice before he be set to any official correspondence.   
  
His hand begins to cramp severely, and he finishes copying out the last of the French to English papers he was handed, as a test of how true his fluency.   
  
He looks up and is startled to note that only himself, Hamilton and Tilghman still occupy the room, the feverish scratching of Hamilton’s quill accompanied by only the flicker of candlelight.  
  
Tilghman must feel his gaze, and glances up. He quirks an eyebrow.  
  
“Hamilton holds you hostage still?”   
  
Laurens frowns. “No indeed, Sir; I have only just finished.”   
  
“Hmm,” Tilghman puts his own quill down, then stretches languidly. “Do not feel the need to outlast Hammie; there is none else here who need so little sleep as he seems to require.”   
  
Laurens glances quickly at Hamilton, but he seems not to have heard, or is ignoring it.   
  
Tilghman chuckles tiredly. “Worry not for his offence. It more likely that he will offend others than I will offend him.”   
  
“You hold your tongue, Sir,” mutters Hamilton, startling them both with the realisation he _is_ listening.   
  
But Tilghman only grins. “Ah, but I must capture your attention somehow. Your protégée requires his sleep.”   
  
“He is not that,” snaps Hamilton, miraculously continuing to write. “I presume him my elder.”  
  
“No, indeed,” mocks Tilghman. “But my point stands. Laurens requires sleep like any mortal man.”   
  
At this, Hamilton finally looks up. Amusement sparks across his features. “Am I not a mortal man?”  
  
Tilghman snorts rather inelegantly. “Some days, Hamilton, I know not _what_ you are.”   
  
“ _Fils de pute_ ,” Hamilton retorts.  
  
Laurens’ eyes widen, and Tilghman’s grin expands. “You forget that all in this room speak French.”   
  
Hamilton blinks. “My apologies.” He does not truly look sorry, just annoyed he has momentarily forgotten such an important fact.  
  
His intense gaze lands on Laurens, and he winks. “Should we to bed, then?”   
  
Laurens’ heart skips a beat, and he inwardly screams, knowing this just a tease, knowing Hamilton has already realised how easy he is to fluster.   
  
“I suppose we ought,” he bites out, harsher than he means.   
  
Hamilton looks surprised, but then a strange expression crosses his face, one Laurens cannot place. As he is about to apologise for the tone taken, however, the door opens quickly, and a familiar dark blond head peeks through.   
  
“I do not suppose Hamilton is—Ah, I see you still awake.” Major Tallmadge steps through the door proper, gaze briefly landing on Laurens. “And indeed, Laurens as well! I see you have already been set to working.”   
  
Laurens nods, ignoring Tilghman’s curious gaze. “Aye.”   
  
“Good, good.” Tallmadge appears distracted. “Hamilton, a word?”   
  
Hamilton nods and places his quill down, following Tallmadge out the door, footsteps retreating with haste.   
  
Tilghman starts to stack his papers away, sprinkling pounce powder carefully over recently completed correspondence. “I did not know you were already acquainted with Tallmadge?” he asks cautiously.   
  
There is an almost… _suspicious_ lilt to his question.  
  
Laurens begins to pack his own things neatly, making sure not to touch Hamilton’s side of the desk.   
  
“He were also in consultation with General Washington when first I arrived.”   
  
Tilghman raises a single eyebrow, in a spectacularly quizzical expression, suspicion fading. Laurens wonders what he thought prior. “What an interesting welcome you received. Reed, Hamilton and Tallmadge!”   
  
Laurens frowns. “Tallmadge does not seem particularly polarising company.”  
  
“Well—that is, no,” Tilghman agrees, shaking his head. “The man is _exceedingly_ pleasant. But he—intelligence be a curious venture.” There seems more in what Tilghman does not say, but Laurens is too tired to read what is possibly implicit.  
  
“Why should he have need to speak with Hamilton?” he finds himself asking, instead.   
  
Tilghman picks up a candle, motioning towards the door. “Hamilton is—Washington trusts Hamilton to aid with intelligence reports; organise them, and the like.”   
  
This is curious indeed, as Hamilton does not seem one much suited to spy-work. It is clear he has impressed Washington in some sincere and special way, and Laurens means to find it out, if only to better his own efforts.  
  
“None others assist with this?” he questions.   
  
Tilghman only responds with a dry: “That would rather defeat the objective of secret intelligence, no?”   
  
“I suppose,” Laurens allows. And it would, but he wonders how much Hamilton does know, is involved. The mysteries of the man continue.   
  
Tilghman gestures towards the door. “We should to bed, since we likely be required by daybreak. There is no knowing how late Hamilton may return to us now.”   
  
Laurens acquiesces easily, desperately forcing a yawn away.  
  
“We should all be in one room; I hope that is agreeable?” Tilghman adds.   
  
Laurens nods. “Certainly.” He hopes Tilghman does not ask expecting a spoiled response, but he supposes they are not yet well enough acquainted to remove all such suppositions of character.  
  
He follows Tilghman tiredly upstairs, past widow Moland’s own quarters, and then past where Washington’s room lies. The aides—bar Harrison and Reed, whose rooms be elsewhere—are all quartered towards the back of the house, nearer the servants’ abode.   
  
Tilghman opens the door as quietly as possible, but none of the others stir even a little. Laurens is surprised to note the room is smaller than he thought, with only three beds squashed into a space more likely made for two, and they pressed up against three small chairs which are piled with various items of clothing.   
  
Tilghman grimaces, and whispers: “It be either sleep in a tent with your own cot; or quarter in a house but share with one who might kick you in your sleep with icy toes.”  
  
Laurens stifles a laugh. “I were one of three brothers; that shall not bother me.”   
  
Tilghman half-smiles, gestures quietly around the room. “Meade and I have taken the window bed; apologies if that be your preference, but Meade is quite particular.”   
  
The second bed is already occupied by two; Fitzgerald, Laurens thinks, and another he recognises not. Captain Gibbs, perhaps?   
  
The third is empty. Tilghman gestures the candlelight towards it. “We decided you and Hamilton ought to share; he being the shortest and you the tallest, it seems only fair.”   
  
Logically, this passes muster, but Laurens would rather share with anyone _but_ Hamilton, for he already recognises that Hamilton, solely of the aides, poses problems to his sinful disposition. He knows how it feels to be— _attracted_ —to a man, unholy actions besides, and knows Hamilton to be exactly the sort of… _temptation_ he was hoping to avoid by running from Europe, and his responsibilities.   
  
He grits his teeth, manages: “That seems fair indeed.”  
  
Tilghman crosses the room and sets the candle carefully on the floor, removing boots, stockings, cravat, coat and vest. He does not even remove his queue before tumbling into bed, back to back with Meade, but avoiding the impropriety of actually touching.   
  
Laurens shakes himself into similar action, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. His head spins with all he has encountered over the last three days. His trunk has been miraculously located and stored under the bed beside Hamilton’s, as he realises when he stubs his toe on the corner of it, cursing softly.   
  
“Hush, Laurens,” whispers Tilghman, but it sounds in good humour.   
  
“Apologies,” he murmurs back. He quickly strips to only his shirt and breeches, also forgoing the bother of undoing his queue, though he knows he may likely regret it come morn. He stumbles into bed, glad of even a thin mattress after two nights of hard ground, and shoves himself towards the wall, allowing space behind him should Hamilton arrive.   
  
Tilghman must hear him climb abed, for the candle is quickly snuffed out.   
  
Laurens finds himself drifting to sleep far quicker than he ever has previous.

  
When he awakes the next morn to the first soft rays of sunrise, and the sharp, chattering wit of the other aides as they arise and dress ready to greet the day, he realises that the other side of the bed is cold, and no sign of Hamilton ever having slept there.   
  
A strange and awful disappointment rolls over him shamefully, and he shoves it far, far away, turning over to meet a pillow to the face from Meade, and the realisation he has been accepted amongst these men in a manner easier than any he has faced before in his life.  
  
And if that strange lingering disappointment clouds his mind for a minute or two longer, there is none that would know but his heart, for he has great practise in hiding it away from even himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely doubt Laurens would have been sent away from the other aides for the journey, but you know, plot convenience and all that.
> 
> Amaranthus crassipes, aristida stricta, balduina atropurpurea and balduina uniflora are literally just scientific names from a list of South Carolinian flora.
> 
> I have no idea about the aides’ sleeping arrangements at Moland, but I plead creative license.
> 
> There is historical basis for Hamilton being involved in intelligence! He knew/recruited Hercules Mulligan (who was already spying by this point), and was one of the few individuals who knew of the Culper Ring.
> 
> Get ready for the first appearance of America’s favourite fighting Frenchman next chapter!


	3. Of Dangerous Glances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Hope everyone’s had an alright week in this weird time <3
> 
> Whilst I did take French for several years at school, it’s been a hot minute, so any French in this has mostly been done via a (probably dodgy) translator, with me trying to fix errors where I can. Try to overlook it, and sort of treat it as the ‘general French mood of the moment’, rather than actual accurate language translation :p 
> 
> Enjoy!

_John Moland House  
Warwick Township  
August 13th – 22rd 1777_

Laurens spends the next week and a half at the Moland house learning every inch of what constitutes his duties as a volunteer aide-de-camp. He also learns that Hamilton is as like to come to bed as not; often being found come morn slumped over his desk, cheeks smudged by ink, under-eyes darkened by exhaustion. 

Yet still, he requires much coaxing to sleep, as though worried taking the time for slumber should spoil his incredibly capacity for work in the eyes of Washington.  
  
For this is another word—or phrase, rather—that Laurens has found to add to his list on Alexander Hamilton: _desperately hungry to rise, to prove himself_.   
  
Laurens recognises this quickly, for he himself has felt this _need_ to prove one’s value to the world. He also understands his hunger in this manner to be slightly different than Hamilton’s; he wishes to prove his value as a man separate from what is bestowed on him by his father’s legacy.   
  
Hamilton seems desperate to prove he matter as a man _at all_. That he be deemed worthy of creating his _own_ legacy.   
  
It makes Laurens all the more curious about his desk mate’s background and family ties, but the few times it is even mentioned in passing, Hamilton goes cold and still, a terrifyingly blank mask sliding over his face, so Laurens lets it be.   
  
As a volunteer aide, and a new one at that, Laurens is not yet trusted with the most important of the correspondence, although Washington had deemed his imitating skills satisfactory enough after three or so days.   
  
“Almost as quickly as Hamilton!” Meade had congratulated, ignoring the bitter look Hamilton wears at such a proclamation; he speaks little to Laurens the rest of that day but to correct his attempts at writing Washington’s less important correspondence with more and more sharp ire as the evening passes.   
  
Even with such low level correspondence and translation work, Laurens understands enough of the talk between the other aides to ascertain that another battle with the British creeps closer and closer, and that a General Sullivan has been ordered back from Staten Island to reinforce the main Continental Army, but has so far refused.   
  
The letters between them grow more and more irate, and are mostly tasked to Hamilton’s persuasive skill, but even he seems unlikely to succeed in the venture, which only frustrates his mood further.   
  
This culminates a little over a week into their stay at Moland house, with Hamilton actually scrunching a letter in disgust, and launching it across the room, where Reed—who, whilst not always present, unfortunately is that morn—slowly glances up from his own desk and meets Hamilton’s eyes disapprovingly.  
  
Hamilton only glares savagely, mutters _imbécile_ under his breath, and storms out.  
  
Laurens can only hope Hamilton speaks of Sullivan with such an insult, and not Reed, else an argument is to be expected later; that, or a private scolding from Harrison.  
  
Meade looks up slowly. Laurens has learnt he is the most like to lighten the mood with quick-witted banter, but even he seems rather dour today.   
  
“We can only hope this be resolved soon, else _le petit lion_ ’s sour mood pervade the rest of us.”   
  
Reed’s eyes narrow, but he ignores Meade, as he is wont to do, and returns to work.   
  
Tilghman sighs. “General Sullivan will not yield to this, and I think we better occupied with scouting out just what Howe intends with his campaign.”   
  
Fitzgerald snorts softly. “I did not know you were Washington’s advisor in this matter, Tilghman.”   
  
Tilghman does not rise to the bait. He only hums. “No, not I. Hamilton, though…”   
  
Laurens now decides to break from his own work. “Hamilton’s opinion is valued on this matter?”   
  
Meade and Tilghman exchange a glance.   
  
“All the aides-de-camp’s sentiments are valued by the General.” Tilghman eventually says, diplomatically.  
  
Fitzgerald returns to his work, but mutters. “Aye, but some more so than others.”   
  
Laurens thinks it wise not to prod, and besides, Harrison is looking disapproving, and whilst Laurens cares not for Reed’s judgment, Harrison is another matter.  
  
The clock ticks past noon, as a servant brings the aides a repast of hot fresh bread and coffee (a God send!), but still Hamilton does not return.   
  
Instead, there is a fairly loud commotion out in the hall, and the distinct cadences of a French accent reach Laurens’ ears, prompting memories of Europe to surface unwillingly.   
  
Meade looks up once more at this, glee clear on his face.   
  
“Laurens?” he queries.   
  
Laurens sighs, puts down his quill again, though he were in the middle of quite a well-constructed sentence. “Aye, Meade?”   
  
“It occurs to me that you have not yet been acquainted with the excellent Frenchman I spoke of when first we met.”   
  
Laurens frowns. “No, I have not.”   
  
Fitzgerald and Tilghman are grinning now, and even Harrison allows a smile, though a smile seems too foreign for Reed’s temperament.   
  
“Ah, then you are in for a French treat,” chuckles Tilghman.   
  
Laurens feels confused, but is distracted by Captain Gibbs poking his head around the door.   
  
“Hamilton is not here?”   
  
“No,” answers Reed, very shortly.   
  
“No matter!” cries another voice behind Gibbs, who retreats hurriedly. “I have not yet been—how you say? _Présenté à_ your aide-de-camp _nouveau_!”   
  
Through the door steps an especially young man, surely not yet twenty. He is very tall, only perhaps an inch, or not even that, off the General, and like Hamilton, he seems to burst with ridiculous energy, though his seems born more of joviality than ill-temper.   
  
He is delicate boned, and fair of face, sporting elaborately powdered hair.  
  
“Marquis!” exclaims Tilghman in delight, and Laurens sees that all the aides look rather fond of this vivacious Frenchman.   
  
The Marquis wears blue, well-made and embroidered decoratively, but does not sport any distinguishing marks of rank, and Laurens’ wonders at his purpose in the army.   
  
Or he does, until all that energy is turned towards him, and he forgets what he were thinking.   
  
“Ah! But you must be John Laurens!”   
  
He pronounces John like _Jean_ and Laurens with far too much emphasis on the end syllable, but it does sound rather lovely spoken so.   
  
“ _Oui,_ that is I.”   
  
The Marquis looks delighted. “Another French speaker? Ah, _un bel homme_!”   
  
Tilghman laughs, and Laurens flushes, but the Marquis does not seem to realise how what he has said could be construed, so they leave it be.   
  
“ _Oui, je parle Français, mais pas aussi bien que certains_ ,” Laurens replies instead.  
  
The Marquis waves a hand. “ _Non,_ you sound, what is it? _Très bon_.”   
  
Laurens laughs. “ _Merci_. But I am not a French speaker by birth, merely taught, and likely rather out of practise in speech.”   
  
Reed grunts. “If you two so ardently wish to converse at volume, perhaps you can move this conversation elsewhere.”   
  
Laurens feels his fingernails dig into wood of his desk, but says nothing. It is not as though he is the only one Reed appears to fervently dislike.   
  
That, at least, he shares with Hamilton.   
  
The Marquis is not so affected. “Ha!” he exclaims. “ _Oui_ , if that be your wish, Reed, we shall go. _On y va_?” The French he directs at Laurens.   
  
Laurens chews his lip. “I have not quite finished—”   
  
Meade waves a quill at him, flicking ink on the floor, which Harrison rolls his eyes at. “No, you go, Laurens. There are more than enough of us here for now, and one should not miss an opportunity to become acquainted with the most excellent Marquis.”   
  
“Well—I—” Laurens still hesitates.  
  
“Oh, go, Sir,” laughs Tilghman. “Do not think we miss how late you remained at work some nights this past week, waiting on Hamilton to finish and retire to bed.”   
  
Laurens winces inwardly. Yes, it is true he has waited on Hamilton a few times, but it be more from a selfish wish to converse with him alone, than any true work ethic; it has eventuated in nothing anyhow, as Hamilton is mostly silent and distracted when he writes.   
  
So, Laurens acquiesces, rising from his desk on cramped legs, following the enthusiastic Marquis out the door.

Outside, the weather wears a slight chill, but is still mostly pleasant, and Laurens savours the sun on his face.   
  
The Marquis laughs at him. “I see you have been much _enchaîné à votre bureau, non_?”   
  
“ _Oui_ ,” sighs Laurens. “I have indeed.”   
  
The Marquis regards him as they stride out into the encampment. “You seem a man more fit for _le combat_ , yes?”   
  
Laurens smiles slightly at how easily the Marquis reads him. “Yes, I should hope for such, but I know the import of an aide’s role regardless.”   
  
“Hmm.” The Marquis appears amused. “I should introduce to you myself properly, I think.”   
  
It is clear that whilst his English is good, the Marquis can be as clumsy in speech on occasion as Laurens thinks he himself must be in French.  
  
“You already know me to be John Laurens,” Laurens agrees.   
  
“ _Bien sûr_ , for Hamilton has mentioned you often.”   
  
Laurens makes a face of unease. “So I have heard.”   
  
The Marquis chuckles. “ _Non_ , he is mostly _gratuit_.”   
  
Laurens doubts this, somehow.   
  
The Marquis then performs a small, teasing bow. “And so, I am very pleased to meet you John Laurens; I am called by Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de La Fayette.” He holds out a hand.   
  
Laurens is astounded—an _aristocrat_ , no less—but manages to shake the proffered hand. “Marie-Joseph Paul Yves—” he begins, but the Marquis cuts him off with a joyful laugh.   
  
“ _Un nom ridicule, n'est-ce pas_?”   
  
Laurens silently agrees. “Marquis shall suit me just fine.”   
  
“Oh, _non_ ,” The Marquis exclaims. “You shall call me by simply Gilbert, or Lafayette, as _mes amis_ do.”   
  
“We are not yet particularly acquainted—”   
  
The Marquis—Lafayette—grins. “I will have it not, John Laurens. I can sense we shall become _le meilleur des amis_ , as Hamilton and I, and as I am sure you and he shall be.”  
  
Somehow, that is the most surprising thing Lafayette has spoken so far.   
  
“You consider Hamilton your particular friend?”   
  
He does not seem one for such easy camaraderie as the Marquis should exude.   
  
Lafayette smirks. “ _Oui_ , but of course. None else could have gifted him such a name as _le petit lion_ , and lived _raconte l'histoire_.”   
  
Laurens laughs, at this. “Ah, so that was you, Sir!”   
  
“ _Mais bien sûr, oui_!” Lafayette responds. “It is fitting, _non_?”  
  
“Indeed.”   
  
“All agree, then!” Lafayette’s smile is so beautiful and carefree, Laurens thinks it could cheer any man from any mood. “And now, we go to find _notre petit lion_ , yes?”   
  
Laurens stops walking. “Ah—that is—”   
  
Lafayette ignores him. “We must, as I require him to _aidez moi_ , and one cannot let Hamilton in his own head too long.”   
  
Laurens wonders on his meaning, but agrees, simply because it would be hard to resist such a force of nature as this Frenchman, and not because he wishes to locate Hamilton.   
  
Not at all.  
  


Laurens thinks they might wander aimlessly through the encampment, but it is clear Lafayette has some destination in mind.   
  
They eventually reach the eastern edge of the camp, with Lafayette having chattered on a variety of trivial subjects on their way, French rolling thick and fast off his tongue.   
  
Laurens is content to allow him to speak, though he admits to missing a fair part of Lafayette’s story, his French ability having suffered since his removal from Geneva, and as such not entirely quick enough to follow exactly.  
  
Lafayette must eventually realise this by Laurens’ lack of conversational input, and chuckles dryly. “I think perhaps you too become _perdu dans vos propres pensées, oui_?”   
  
Laurens blinks, flushes with embarrassment at his having been caught. “ _Je m'excuse_ , Lafayette, I were listening, truly. I merely lack the French skill to keep abreast with your speech at such pace.”   
  
“Ah!” Lafayette laughs; it truly is a laugh that could be described as sparkling. “I shall endeavour to speak _moins vite,_ as you Americans all do such with your English _pour moi_.”   
  
“And I shall endeavour to improve my speed,” Laurens promises.   
  
Lafayette shoots a smile at him. “ _Merci_. I am forgetting most Americans who learn French do not usually have cause to speak it aloud often; I forget Hamilton’s ease and spoken French be such a—what is _singularité_?”   
  
“Singularity,” responds Laurens. “It is nearly the same word. Rarity works also, in such a context.”   
  
“Rarity,” repeats Lafayette. “Almost _rareté_ , though that meaning be not exactly the same, I think.”  
  
Laurens mulls this over. “Hamilton’s French is a rarity here?” He is not certain he understands what Lafayette means by this, exactly.  
  
“ _Oui_ ,” says Lafayette, though his easy smile indicates he means no offence to others’ abilities by this observation. “I suspect he may have had cause to speak it once _beaucoup_ , perhaps as a child, though _je n'ose pas remettre en question trop fort_ ; he seems unwilling to speak on such a subject, _non_?”   
  
Laurens frowns, mentally switching between the French and English as quick as he is able. “I do not think myself well enough acquainted with Hamilton to query on his childhood at all, Sir, and certainly not enough to comment on his reticence in speaking of it.”   
  
“ _Peut être pas_ ,” allows Lafayette. “I only mean to say—Ah, I lack in this language. It matters not.”   
  
Laurens is still puzzled. “I am not entirely sure I understand your meaning? Is it his fluency that makes his French so rare in the Americas?”   
  
“ _Oui,_ but _non_.” Lafayette puffs his cheeks, then blows the air out in exasperation. It seems so childlike an action to come from such a noble-born French soldier that Laurens almost laughs. “It is his—how you say? _Sa manière de parler_.”   
  
Laurens considers this. “His accent?”   
  
“ _Oui,_ his accent; I did not realise this the same word in English.” Lafayette appears relieved at finally conveying his meaning.  
  
“His accent is rare?” Laurens queries, wondering what this could mean.   
  
“ _Oui_.” Lafayette pauses. “When you speak, though you are fluent and I understand _à la perfection_ , your pronunciation carries an element of your American speech. Hamilton, he speaks English like this, but his French, _non_. I know not the accent it carries, _toutefois_.”   
  
Laurens thinks on the small trace of an accent he heard in Hamilton’s speech whilst he was angered, and wonders if this offer a clue to his background. It be curious, anyhow.   
  
Before he can reply, however, Lafayette is distracted by a sighting of the very man they speak on.  
  
“Ah! We locate _le petit lion_ , as I had hoped.” He points towards a lone man, sitting up against a tree where the encampment meets forest, writing feverishly on a travel desk. “Hamilton, he is likely to be found writing alone when he is _frustré et en colère_ , _oui_?”   
  
“I shall endeavour to remember that, should I be seeking him,” Laurens replies, slightly amused to realise Hamilton sulks.  
  
“ _Le petit lion_ , you cannot hide from me, _non_?” Lafayette suddenly yells rather loudly, and Laurens winces as a few soldiers arrayed nearby glance in their direction.   
  
Hamilton startles, almost upsetting the ink pot beside him.   
  
Laurens expects him to look angered, but the man’s eyes catch on Lafayette, and he smiles a little, if completely genuinely.   
  
“Ah, Lafayette. I should know by now I can never expect to be left to my own devices when you are present.” He barely glances at Laurens.  
  
Lafayette clasps Laurens on the shoulder, tone light and friendly. “I say speak of the man and he shall appear, and here we have found him, so _j'ai raison, n'est-ce pas_?”   
  
Hamilton’s face momentarily hardens. “You were speaking of me?”   
  
Lafayette seems unaffected by his sullen look. “ _Oui_. I were regaling Laurens of your many virtues, were I not, _mon amie_?” This directed at Laurens.   
  
“Oh, indeed,” he teases. “Lafayette seems much taken with you.”   
  
A glint of cheek sparks in Hamilton’s eye, and Laurens immediately regrets his fun. “Oh?” Hamilton questions, placing the travel desk down beside him. “And what of you, Laurens? Are you much taken with me?”   
  
Lafayette chuckles as Laurens manages to keep his blush under control.   
  
“I confess I am still unsure what to make of you, Hamilton,” he admits softly.   
  
“Hmm.” A smirk steals over Hamilton’s face. “Then I shall have to attempt further to garner your favour.” He meets Laurens’ eye teasingly, but that strange intensity is back, as though a flame tries to escape through the inky blue.   
  
Laurens’ heart beats faster; he finds himself unable to look away, caught by the deep gaze, until Hamilton breaks eye contact.   
  
Lafayette is watching them thoughtfully. “I had supposed I would ask for your assistance on a matter, Hamilton, but I find perhaps _ce n'est plus necessaire_. I think instead I will leave you in Laurens’ capable company, for I must now seek the General; _je suis déjà en retard_.”   
  
Hamilton tilts his head up, regarding Lafayette thoroughly. “If that be the case, _mon amie_ , why did you take this time to seek me out?”   
  
Lafayette only winks at Hamilton; smirks at Laurens. “Ah, but I know better than to let you to your sulking by now.” He pauses, glances at Laurens carefully, then says: “ _Vous savez que vous êtes l'un des hommes les plus fiables de Washington, non? Je pense que je dois vous le rappeler parfois_.”   
  
It is a lot of French, spoken very quickly, and when he were in Geneva, Laurens would have had no trouble with it. As it is, he manages the gist: Hamilton fears losing the favour and trust of Washington should he not accomplish every task he is assigned successfully, and Lafayette reminds him this loss of favour unlikely to occur due to esteem the General holds for him.   
  
Hamilton’s face only tightens.  
  
“I think Sullivan very unlikely to change course now,” Laurens murmurs softly, attempts to reassure. “No matter the skill of the one who should write him.”   
  
“ _Certainement_ ,” agrees Lafayette distractedly, bouncing around on his toes like an excited child. “I must away, _mes amis_ , but I hope we can be further acquainted soon, Laurens, _oui_?”   
  
“ _Oui_ ,” agrees Laurens, but Lafayette has already bounded off, presumably in search of General Washington.   
  
“He is an interesting man,” Laurens remarks, as they watch Lafayette make his way back through camp and out of sight.   
  
“Indeed.” Hamilton’s smile is as tender as he has ever seen it. “And a valuable friend. Though perhaps a little too fond of the General.”   
  
“Too fond?” Laurens questions. “How can one be too fond of His Excellency? He does such good work here.”   
  
Hamilton picks his writing desk up again. “Yes, certainly. But it does none any good to forget that he is also simply just a man.”   
  
This is somewhat a surprise; Laurens has partially assumed Hamilton’s wish to impress Washington be due to affectionate esteem held for him in return, but perhaps it truly is more about proving himself a recognised asset to America, than to meeting with Washington’s approval alone.   
  
“That is true,” he concedes. “One does tend to forget great figures are also simply men.”  
  
“Like your father?” quips Hamilton, tone mocking, but not unduly so.   
  
Laurens bites the inside of his cheek. “He is not—he is influential, to be sure.”   
  
Hamilton hums, contemplating this. “Henry Laurens is certainly that.” His gaze flicks up to Laurens, suddenly calculating. “I do not suppose you have written your father on the matter of General Sullivan? Or indeed, the defence of Philadelphia?”   
  
Laurens huffs. “I—have not. I have not written him since I arrived.”   
  
Hamilton cocks his head. “And why not? Is that not your purpose, here?”   
  
Laurens feels his hands twitch, and determines not to clench them. “I am here to serve General Washington as an aide; none have instructed me write my father, so I have not.”   
  
Hamilton blinks, possibly at the bitter tone. “I did not mean offence, Laurens.”  
  
“No?” The word is bitten out before Laurens can stop it.   
  
Hamilton frowns. “Sit down, _s'il vous plait_.”   
  
Laurens hesitates, but Hamilton waves him down impatiently, shifting so that he may also lean against the tree trunk.   
  
Laurens is careful to ensure their shoulders do not touch.   
  
Hamilton sighs. “I assure you I meant no offence. I understand why you may think such, given my… behaviour when first we met, but I truly do wish us to become acquainted without animosity.”   
  
Laurens stays silent, and Hamilton forges onwards.   
  
“I only ask about your father because if he is as influential among Congress as I suspect, we may yet move Sullivan from his position. I mean no slight by requesting it of you; I have read over your correspondence this past week and found none of it at all wanting.”   
  
Laurens allows this. Certainly, Hamilton cannot be held accountable for not understanding the complex relationship Laurens has with his father, since he has shared but little of it.   
  
“I will write him, if you so wish.”   
  
Hamilton smirks slightly. “I do wish.”  
  
“Well.” Laurens pauses. “I should do it then, should I not? If Hamilton wishes it.”   
  
Hamilton chuckles, nudges his shoulder against Laurens, who freezes at the touch, all too aware of the heated skin beneath the layers.   
  
Hamilton appears not to notice his reaction, or ignores it. He turns his head towards Laurens’ slightly, who realises with alarm how close they are. “Were you and Lafayette truly conversing about me?”   
  
His tone is uncharacteristically unsure.   
  
Laurens forces himself not to think of Hamilton’s lips as they breathe the same air. “ _Oui_ , but not necessarily about your virtues,” he finds himself saying, as though through a haze.  
  
Hamilton draws back, to both Laurens’ relief and dismay, indignation crossing his face. “Well, on what, then? My flaws? I find this highly objectionable, Sir, given you and I only acquainted a week’s past.”  
  
“No, no,” Laurens laughs, oddly pleased to have shaken the usually confident man. “Of course not. We were speaking of French, actually, and Lafayette mentioned he finds your French a rarity in the Americas.”   
  
Hamilton frowns. “He has not spoken of such to me.”   
  
_Ah. Damn_.   
  
Laurens has put his figurative foot in it, it seems. “He only—I speak French with a little of an American accent, I suppose, but he says yours does not contain such an accent. It be a compliment, I think.”   
  
This, unfortunately, does not seem to belay Hamilton’s misgivings. Instead, his eyes have that cold, hardened look about them, and he suddenly seems much older than his years.   
  
“And what does my French contain, then?” he asks, voice icy.   
  
Laurens winces, shrugs. “He does not know. I apologise, Hamilton. I did not realise this a topic you would find so disagreeable. I believe Lafayette were merely curious.”   
  
Hamilton appears to deflate, suddenly. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “No I—do not worry on it, Laurens. I simply—I am not a man like to share much of myself with others, for I find myself the only constant dependable. I grow—defensive, at such queries.”

He glances at Laurens, but the gaze conveys emotions unrecognisable. “Even that be more than I would usually reveal.” He seems confused at this, as though he cannot be sure why he tells Laurens such.   
  
Laurens is not sure either, since he thought himself still fairly disliked. He finds the idea of keeping much of oneself to oneself only rather sad, but realises he has done much the same in his own life, and so cannot comment.   
  
“I am one of five siblings,” he says, instead, then flushes at the abruptness of it.   
  
Hamilton blinks. Chuckles slightly. His face grows less wary. “What is this? An exchange of facts about oneself?”   
  
Laurens shrugs. “If you would so wish it.”   
  
“Ha.” Hamilton grins, and Laurens finds himself momentarily lost in its remarkable brilliance, so he glances at the ground, counts strands of grass. “A game, of sorts, then. If that be the case—well. I suppose I can say that I have one brother, though I have not heard from him in a great while.” He pauses. “And I would appreciate that stay between us.”  
  
Laurens is ridiculously warmed by Hamilton’s sudden trust in his discrepancy, and hates himself for it.   
  
“I had two brothers,” he offers in return. “And two sisters. But one—one of my brothers died,” he finishes blankly, similarly unsure why he shares such a fact.   
  
Hamilton places a hand on his knee; the skin around it jolting at his touch. “I am sorry, Laurens,” he murmurs softly. “The death of a close family member—” he trails off, and Laurens does not feel like prompting him to finish.   
  
They sit in silence for a moment, before Hamilton’s changeable mood is once again on display. He suddenly gathers up his writing things, shoving papers at random into the travel desk. “Whilst I find it rather difficult to work under Reed’s disapproving eye, I suspect we may be missed if we linger here much longer.”   
  
Laurens shakes himself back to the present. “Aye, I should suspect so, though Meade did give me leave to accompany Lafayette, on account of my—” He stops, remembers to whom he speaks.   
  
“On account of your what?” Hamilton prods, standing and offering a hand to Laurens to assist, which he takes briefly, and lets go as soon as is proper.   
  
“My staying up many nights until you were finished your work.”   
  
Hamilton’s eyebrows raise as he tucks his writing desk under his arm. “Do you stay up to wait on me, Laurens? I would not have you miss sleep on my account.”   
  
“I do not mind,” shrugs Laurens. “It is peaceful when all else are abed but us.”   
  
Hamilton hums. “Well, I should—I should appreciate it, for it seems I enjoy your company in the quiet of the evening as much as you enjoy mine.” His gaze on Laurens is warm, and his eyes again hold that strange expression that were prompted when Laurens reacted to his tease about going to bed together.   
  
Laurens shivers, though it is not cold, and follows Hamilton back towards Moland house, thoughts twisting inside, and a terrible, awful, sinful longing coiling in his chest.

***

The rest of the afternoon and evening passes much the same as the morning, with Laurens drowning in French correspondence, and Hamilton beside him making faces and tutting under his breath at nearly every letter he reads.   
  
Reed stands and leaves the room with a pinched look on his face not half an hour after Hamilton and Laurens return, which seems to amuse Hamilton immensely; he assures Laurens Reed likely dislikes him only on account of his beginning a friendship of sorts with Hamilton, and not from judgement on any of his own merits.   
  
Laurens doubts this, somewhat, as Reed has seemed set against him since his arrival.   
  
Meade overhears this whispered exchange, and comments: “Reed may seem set against everyone in the world but himself.”   
  
Harrison tuts and scolds at this, but it seems rather half-hearted. Laurens wonders how he manages sharing a room with the man, but Harrison does appear remarkedly even-tempered.   
  
As the evening light gives way to mottled darkness, Tilghman stands and proclaims they all require a night off, for drinking and making merry, “Before the bastard British show up once more!”   
  
Laurens would protest, but when even Hamilton agrees, he subsides.   
  
Though they have a perfectly good house in which to drink calmly, and in moderation, as is Laurens’ preferred method of partaking in such, Fitzgerald and Tilghman appear determined they imbibe copious amounts around a campfire outside—“The proper way of the army!”—so, by midnight, Laurens finds himself fairly inebriated, listening to the other aides laugh through drink-sodden phrases and sloppy teases.   
  
At one point, a remarkedly pretty maidservant walks hurriedly past, likely returning to the house from some errand of the widow’s, and Hamilton’s gaze follows her hungrily, prompting good-natured ribbing from the other aides about his apparently renowned tomcat ways, which Laurens listens to with a heavy, sinking feeling.   
  
If Hamilton be such a man for chasing women in this manner—Well.   
  
He is safe from being infected by Laurens’ sins, at least, he suppposes rather miserably.   
  


Eventually, Laurens decides himself far past drunk enough, rapidly heading from jubilance towards melancholy, and so declares his leave to the rest of the men, who protest, as is expected of them, but make no move to arrest his return to the house.   
  
He is stumbling through a side door—alarmed to realise he is much drunker than he imagined, what were he _thinking_ —when a hand clamps him hard on the shoulder from behind, and Hamilton murmurs heavily into his ear.   
  
“ _Je prendrais aussi ma retraite au lit_.”   
  
_I would also retire to bed_.  
  
Laurens’ feels a terrible tremble of anticipation, though he knows Hamilton does not truly insinuate anything untoward. He wraps an arm around the other man as they both stumble towards the staircase.   
  
“ _Merci,_ Laurens,” Hamilton slurs. “ _Je pense que nous sommes définitivement amis maintenant, oui_?”   
  
“ _Oui_ ,” agrees Laurens, his tongue almost getting in the way. He sees what Lafayette means; the lilting accent is not at all concealed when Hamilton speaks French, and in his drunken state, some floating piece of knowledge is unlocked.   
  
He has heard such cadence before, thought it exotic, incredibly beautiful even, and he knows from whence it comes, if he can only force his sullen and drink-soaked mind to remembrance, and—  
  
Ah!   
  
An epiphany!   
  
It is—  
  
“Caribbean,” he breathes.   
  
At this, Hamilton tears himself out of Laurens’ grasp in alarm, stumbling them both drunkenly against the wall. His eyes are very wide, nearly fearful, and locked entirely on Laurens’ face.   
  
“Of what did you speak?” His tone is angry; his face shifts emotions rapidly, and if eyes could ignite flame, his would, and Laurens should catch ablaze.   
  
Laurens’ blinks, addled mind struggling. “You are—I had a friend, in Geneva who—their French was beautiful and it—they were Caribbean raised. It sounds as yours.” He pauses. Then, emboldened by drink, he adds:   
  
“ _Très beau_ ,” the words soft, nearly inaudible.  
  
Hamilton’s eyes do not leave Laurens’ face, and a heavy, hungry look settles over them. This look, this particular brand of hunger, Laurens’ _does_ recognise, and he feels a forbidden shiver rack him from head to toe.   
  
“You will not speak of this,” Hamilton murmurs, commands, words barely audible, breath hot against Laurens’ skin. “ _Vous n'en parlerez pas_.”   
  
“ _Non_ ,” agrees Laurens, trapped in place by Hamilton’s starving, pleading gaze, unable to move, unable to even draw breath. “ _Je promets_. Hamilton, I do, I promise I shall not.” He pleads with his own gaze that Hamilton might understand; he would not betray this so carefully concealed confidence.  
  
Suddenly, Hamilton lurches forward, his hands going to either side of Laurens’ face, so that Laurens’ back hits the side of the staircase, caught tight by Hamilton’s arms, the other man’s fingers tangling in the hairs that have escaped Laurens’ queue.   
  
“ _Tu me trouves très beau_?” he murmurs; Laurens is sure Hamilton’s eyes flick to Laurens’ lips and then up again.   
  
Laurens swallows, hard. He suddenly knows they no longer speak of French, but of Hamilton himself.   
  
“ _Oui. Très beau_.”   
  
Hamilton releases a gasp at this admission, eyes darkening further, a smug look creeping over his face as he tightens his grasp in Laurens’ hair, and Laurens can hardly stop a small whimper escaping.   
  
He tenses, swallows again, and Hamilton watches his throat bob, looks at him in a manner that demonstrates he knows what he does with such a look, and this is dangerous, _oh so dangerous_ , and they are both very drunk, and they are not at all hidden from view, such that any could walk in, they are _drunk_ , and he will not—he cannot compromise their positions here, and Hamilton were lusting over that girl, and surely that is all this is, misplaced lust, and he will regret—  
  
Laurens breaks away, stumbles up the stairs as quickly as he possibly can in his state, and tumbles into bed, boots not even removed, curling up close to the wall, hiding his heated face in the sheets.   
  
He moves not at all when Hamilton finally climbs in beside him, breathing softly; he is determined to pretend sleep, and then plead forgetfulness come morn.   
  
His heart aches for want, and he despises himself for it from within his very soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The keen historian might realise I’ve got Lafayette already well-known to the aides, when in reality he’d only first joined with the army at Warwick Township. Plot convenience strikes again!
> 
> Also, having lived in Geneva, I’m sure Laurens would have been very proficient in French. My excuse for his lacking a bit in this chapter is time spent away from French speakers, exhaustion, and his own humility (just unreliable narrator things: he’s great at it okay? He just doesn’t believe it).
> 
> Ahhhh I'm so keen to post the next few chapters! 
> 
> Dodgy French translations (if you’re interested):   
> -Un bel homme: A handsome/beautiful man  
> -Oui, je parle Français, mais pas aussi bien que certains: Yes, I speak French, though not as well as some  
> -On y va?: Shall we go?   
> -Enchaîné à votre bureau: Chained to your desk   
> -Bien sûr: Of course   
> -Gradtuit: Complimentary   
> -Le meilleur des amis: the best of friends   
> -Raconte l'histoire: to tell the story   
> -Un nom ridicule, n'est-ce pas?: A ridiculous name, is it not?   
> -Perdu dans vos propres pensées, oui?: Lost in your own thoughts, yes?   
> \- Je n'ose pas remettre en question trop fort: I dare not question too hard  
> -Peut être pas: Maybe not  
> -Sa manière de parler: His manner of speaking  
> -Frustré et en colère: Frustrated and angry   
> -J'ai raison, n'est-ce pas?: I am correct, am I not?   
> -Ce n'est plus necessaire: It is no longer necessary   
> -Je suis déjà en retard: I am already late  
> -Vous savez que vous êtes l'un des hommes les plus fiables de Washington, non? Je pense que je dois vous le rappeler parfois: You know you are one of the most trusted of Washington's men, no? I think I have to remind you that sometimes.  
> \- Je prendrais aussi ma retraite au lit: I would also retire to bed.   
> \- Je pense que nous sommes définitivement amis maintenant, oui?: I think we are definitely friends now, yes?   
> -Tu me trouves très beau?: You find me very beautiful?


	4. The Enemy Began to Land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, hope you’ve all been doing alright :)
> 
> This was a historical fact heavy chapter to write, so apologies for any inaccuracies/discrepancies. I’m trying my best, but I’m also just having fun writing!
> 
> Also heads up: There are a couple things said about slaves that were typical of the time (and opinions Laurens/others did actually express in their writings) so, you know, just be aware of that.
> 
> Chapter title from “George Washington to Major General John Armstrong, Sr., 25 August 1777” https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/03-11-02-0057 
> 
> Enjoy!

_John Moland House  
Warwick Township  
August 23rd 1777_

It has been learned over their lengthening acquaintance, that even when Laurens is able to goad Hamilton to bed at a reasonable hour, victory in sleep can be seldom claimed, as Hamilton nevertheless manages to rise earlier than any of the other aides, no matter the time he tumbles into the sheets.   
  
On the one hand, this does not necessarily bode ill for Laurens, as it ensures he never sleeps overly late, and so cannot be scolded for tardiness by Reed, as poor Tilghman so often is. On the other hand, it means that even were Laurens in the mood to stay abed, he cannot without feeling guilty that Hamilton has already been moved to work.   
  
The morning of the twenty-third, Laurens thinks himself able to finally claim some semblance of victory, as—though his head aches, his mouth tastes foul, and the terrible guilt of what was almost undertaken the night previous sits as lead in his stomach— _he_ is the first to stir of all the aides, having awoken before even Hamilton.   
  
This feeling of small victory is fleeting, however, as it becomes clear what exactly has occurred as he slept. He makes to roll over, wake Hamilton, and gloat somewhat at his rising first; realises the warm weight over his waist and stomach is in fact Hamilton’s arm, the other man unintentionally pressed up against his back.   
  
His eyes widen, and his heart clenches painfully. Not even lists of native plants or painstakingly memorised _Common Sense_ can silence his thoughts at this moment.   
  
He thinks to move before Hamilton awakes, but too late, for Hamilton stirs against him, gasps, draws back immediately, arm retreating.   
  
Laurens rolls over as Hamilton jolts upright. His face is tight, embarrassed.   
  
“I sincerely apologize, Laurens,” he hisses in a taut whisper, and Laurens feels his heart constrict at the sincere, miserable humiliation on Hamilton’s face. Any hope he may have secretly held of Hamilton sharing his unholy preferences last night now seems ridiculously unfounded.   
  
“There is naught to apologise for,” he mutters softly, hidden hurt choking his words. “Many do things in their sleep they do not intend.”   
  
He rolls back to face the wall determinedly, hears Hamilton release a short sharp breath, and then retreat from the blankets.

Even once Laurens enters the aides’ office after others have already awoken and descended downstairs (in this, he does unwillingly admit some cowardice), Hamilton seems loath to glance at him, face still closed off, eyes tight, but strangely blank.  
  
Neither his, nor Hamilton’s, temperament is improved by news filtering through the ranks of a loss on Staten Island the day prior. It seems that General Sullivan has not only defied Washington, but has openly gone against his wishes, ordering an attack that has backfired spectacularly, losing the cause territory, weaponry and sorely needed men.   
  
“Surely this be grounds enough for a court martial!” Meade exclaims—speaking aloud the thought all must have—though Harrison’s subsequent tight expression suggests that Sullivan should be pardoned easily, no matter a court martial; he is, even now, being sent to reinforce the main army for further brewing conflicts, despite his imprudent loss.  
  
Not only that, but it seems General Howe sails south, with an eye to Philadelphia, exactly as Hamilton predicted not a fortnight ago.   
  
“And yet they did not listen!” Hamilton gripes, and shouts, and rages, pacing around the aides’ office, until Reed glares with such ferocity as to seem akin to a demon—it is he whose opinion has been proven incorrect, after all—that Hamilton is forced to take his griping and pacing outside, lest the force of said glare send him straight to Hell without the inconvenient requirement of death first.  
  
Intelligence—otherwise known as one mysterious Major Tallmadge—informs them the British sail with nearing eighteen thousand men, including German _Jäger_ , and seem to aim for a landing at Delaware Bay.   
  
There is now no longer any question of their intent to take Philadelphia.   
  
If there is any good at all to come of the disaster slowly descending upon the patriots, it is that Hamilton is so distracted as to not mention, nor even attempt discussing, their almost undertaking an illegal act in Washington’s own headquarters.   
  
Perhaps he has truly forgotten?  
  
This, at least, Laurens is grateful for, as he knows not what the preferable reaction would be from Hamilton. If he be condemned in disgust, or vindicated in his preferences, either should prove heartbreakingly disastrous.   
  
A further good thing to come of such events—a blessing in disguise, as it were—is that the army is immediately ordered to march south, nearly fifty miles south, that very morning. This with an eye to ascertain whether Philadelphia should need immediate defence, or whether Howe should attempt some other attack first. Naturally, this requires leaving the Moland house, and the sleeping arrangements that are made now far more awkward than they should be.  
  
Hamilton’s raging and ranting is put on hold, therefore, as the aides move quick to pack, tidy, mount up. Travel writing desks are kept at the ready, in easy reach atop saddlebags. The volume of correspondence quickly swells, as Washington seeks to keep the President of Congress abreast of the situation, whilst somehow also coordinating with the various other Continental Army Generals, and the commanders of the Pennsylvania and Delaware Militias available to the cause.  
  
Harrison is tasked with writing the missive for John Hancock that morn—much to Hamilton’s irritation—as they scurry around the house, and the sounds of horses and hurried men echo outside.   
  
As Hamilton does not address Laurens directly on the subject—instead worrying at Lafayette, who has appeared from seemingly nowhere amidst the rush—Laurens cannot be entirely sure why, but it sounds as though Washington encountered Hamilton in his griping, and was unimpressed (though not unsurprised) at the loss of composure.   
  
Though, Laurens thinks, this be not entirely fair, as Hamilton _was_ right, and it were Washington who was undecided, and Reed who were wrong—though he is not tasked with such either.  
  
Perhaps Hamilton’s brilliant mind be too brilliant for the comfort of others, sometimes.  
  
Regardless, this means Laurens only catches a snippet of the letter over Harrison’s shoulder—

_—I beg leave to inform you , that the army marched early this morning, and will encamp, I expected, this evening within five or six miles of Philadelphia—_

before Harrison whisks it to Meade who, being the most accomplished horseman amongst the aides-de-camp, shall ride with it to Congress ahead of the army.   
  
Laurens decides he ought to pen a missive for his father; though he likely to hear of the army’s movements from Hancock nonetheless, it seems little worth angering Henry Laurens on such a trivial concealment. He is not keen to write it, but if he manages to provoke his father enough that he stops responding to Laurens’ requests, he fears Washington may discard his use before he has a chance to prove it further.   
  
And so, he slips this letter to Meade, who says nothing of it but to glance at Laurens, once, as though he has almost forget who his father be.   
  
A nice concept, if unlikely. 

***

The ride Philadelphia bound is not unpleasant, exactly, but there is a pervasive feel of heavy apprehension in the air, as each man knows not whether they will encounter the British, a battle and potential death on arrival, or whether more uneasy waiting shall occur.  
  
On this journey, Laurens does ride among the other aides-de-camp, ready to put whatever words to ink and paper Washington should require, though he is unlikely to be the first sought on such matters.   
  
As such, he instead finds himself suddenly caught in conversation by the irrepressible Marquis de Lafayette, as Hamilton, Tilghman and Fitzgerald bicker loudly ahead of them, and Washington dictates further correspondence to Harrison.   
  
Reed is luckily elsewhere, likely by virtue of Hamilton’s presence.   
  
“What do they argue on, _mon cher_ , Laurens?” the loud French accent suddenly queries into his ear.   
  
Laurens startles, then brings his horse in line with Lafayette’s—a far more magnificent beast than his, it must be said, though he has never thought his lacking previous.   
  
He raises an eyebrow. “ _Mon cher_ now, is it, Sir? I thought us only just become _mon amie_.”   
  
Lafayette laughs, removes a hand from his reigns to wave it in a theatrically dismissive gesture. “ _Oui_ , but I have decided we are to be dear to one another _très bientôt_ and so I skip to this with ease.”   
  
Laurens finds this so strangely amusing he is forced to concede. “In this, then, I will allow you your ‘ _mon cher_ ’.”   
  
“You are too kind, Sir,” chuckles Lafayette, eyes creased with mirth. “And now I repeat: they argue, _non_? On what?”   
  
Laurens sighs, frowns. “I think they—and mind, I have not been included in their conversing—but I think it be on what General Howe might aim to do; whether he plans to try for Philadelphia outright, or achieve some other victory first.”   
  
“Ah.” Lafayette appears thoughtful. “And I suppose Hamilton is winning this argument, _non_?”   
  
Laurens glances at Lafayette carefully. “I am not sure it can be won until General Howe’s movements are made clear.”   
  
“Ha, _non_ , that is not true.” Lafayette’s smile is fond, directed ahead at Hamilton. Even with him not facing them, his turned back exudes more passionate discourse than many a man’s face. “He may not be proven correct, _c'est vrai_ , but he wins this argument simply by exhausting the opposition I think, _oui_?”   
  
That provokes a small, surprised laugh from Laurens. “I admit, Lafayette, that may be true. I think Hamilton could argue and write at length, at once, and outperform many a man in both together.”   
  
“ _Certainement_.” Lafayette’s gaze on Laurens is considerate. “You seem less unsure of what to make of him than before, _mon cher_. Has _notre petit lion_ got his claws under your skin, as he does mine? Did I not suggest you and him should become _le meilleur des amis_? I know when two men have such souls alike, _tu comprends_?”   
  
Laurens presses his lips together, remembers Hamilton’s hands in his hair, his breath against his cheek, his darkened gaze on his lips.   
  
_More than any man should_ , he thinks. _More than any honourable man should admit._   
  
He cannot say this, though, so says instead: “He is certainly an interesting man, I grant.”   
  
Lafayette hums in response, but his keen eyes make Laurens wish very much to hide his own, lest the Marquis understand things he should not.   
  
“As are you,” he continues, suddenly desperate to leave the topic of Alexander Hamilton behind in their dust. “I should like to learn more of you, Lafayette.”   
  
“Of me?” Lafayette seems surprised. “Ah, but I am not of so much interest.”   
  
“I sincerely doubt that,” Laurens replies, truthfully. “What has brought you here, to our war? France has not yet pledged aid or allyship, _si je ne me trompe pas_?”  
  
“Ah, _non_ , you are not mistaken. My King, _ma famille_ —” Lafayette makes a face. “They were not best pleased at my insistence on offering your cause my assistance.”   
  
“And yet, you still came?” Perhaps, then, Lafayette also understands the need to prove oneself on the field of battle, separate from family name and title.   
  
“ _Bien sûr_.” Lafayette’s eyes begin to spark with that same passion Laurens knows, recognises acutely. “I believe this a noble cause; my heart is dedicated.”   
  
Laurens finds himself very pleased to hear it spoken so; it seems a genuine conviction in their patriot ideals encourages Lafayette as much as, or even more so, than a thirst to prove himself.   
  
“What rank were you commissioned?” he queries, suddenly noting: “I realise I have neglected to ask you this, Sir, and it seems presumptuous that I have not.”   
  
Lafayette frowns slightly, but it lifts quickly. “You have no need of it, _en tout cas_ , for I would not have you address me by it, but— _Major Général_ ; I accept no payment, _toutefois,_ as you. Though your Congress is adamant it only be an honorary title; I should hope…” He trails away.   
  
“For a battalion to command?” suggests Laurens. “Many of us should hope for that, I think.” His mind flits to Hamilton’s sincere wish to take the field in command, held back by his requiring Washington’s name and approval.  
  
“ _Oui_.” Lafayette’s manner seems suddenly subdued. “Even _le Général_ ; he assures me I am held in his highest of confidences, he as _ami et père_ , but that my foreign birth should prevent more.” Suddenly, good cheer springs back into his expression, and he shrugs lightly. “We shall see. Though I assure _le Général_ I am here to learn, not teach, I see how some of these men command; your cause may have need of _une commande française_ yet, _oui?_ ”   
  
“Indeed,” Laurens agrees readily, thinking on the defiance of one General Sullivan, and on how many men may wish to see Washington fall. He is glad they have one such as Lafayette, and should hope he has his chance for a command sooner rather than later.  
  


For a while after this, Laurens is left to ride in solitude, Lafayette moving slightly further up the column to converse with Washington; on what, though, he does not say.   
  
Laurens thinks on whether they may meet in battle tomorrow, a few days hence, a week or two, and finds he is strangely calm about the fact, knowing himself determined to take the field, and should he fall, fall in glory. There be no nobler cause than dying so that others may live free, and should he fall, his wife and soon to be born child should have the consolation of his honourable legacy, without shouldering the burdens he carries into such an unwillingly created family.  
  
Washington calls a halt round noon, wishing to give the horses, and men who walk, a short respite.   
  
Laurens dismounts, stretches his legs a little, eats the hardtack packed in his saddlebags and drinks from his canteen—this, unfortunately, causes spluttering, he caught unaware by it containing rum, and not water.   
  
His inopportune luck continues, as he emerges from his coughing fit to find a smirking Hamilton leaning against his horse, apparent awkwardness of the morning forgotten, it seems.   
  
“Why, Laurens,” sniggers Hamilton, gaze exceedingly teasing, “Are you to be conquered by your own inability to breathe before we even see battle?”  
  
Here, Laurens is almost undone by his temper; equal parts wishing to hit Hamilton over the head with said offending canteen, yell in his face _what dangerous games do we play between us,_ or employ a few choice obscene words to properly affront. He does none, however, and is rather proud of himself for this restraint.   
  
Instead, he grits his teeth and glares. “I were sabotaged by the contents of my canteen.”   
  
“Ha!” If anything, Hamilton seems even further amused by this. “May I?” He gestures towards the insulting implement with a hand.  
  
Laurens hesitates, but then decides he will likely be mocked whether he refuses or no, and so passes the canteen to Hamilton.   
  
A mistake, it seems.   
  
As Hamilton grasps the canteen, his fingers briefly slide between Laurens’, interlocking almost, and he ever so gently squeezes them against his.   
  
The moment is so quick Laurens almost feels he imagined it, until he glances up at Hamilton, who is watching him carefully with a mixed look of wariness and—a heavy, hooded look that Laurens has observed on women who might wish to seduce him (though such a look has always felt as nothing, Hamilton makes it— _more._ )   
  
His startlement causes a tiny smile to lift Hamilton’s lips, before the man turns away to sip from the canteen and Laurens is left reeling.   
  
He is so clearly beyond his own understanding of such matters. He knows the behaviours of other men such as he—sodomites, if he were to be crude, and also by the law—and has been led to believe, been _told_ by some, in fact, that most should only wish to satisfy some sinful lust.   
  
They do not seduce, and flirt, and tease affectionately as women, _and not without being hidden in darkness_ , where such sins can be pretended from existence.   
  
He knows not what his reaction should be to any of this, except to wish ardently that he should not want it to continue so badly.   
  
Hamilton passes the canteen back with no further such behaviour. “Ah, Laurens, we shall have to train you to imbibe with ease if you are to survive this war.”  
  
“I thought it water!” Laurens is cross enough to startle from his awful introspection, at this.   
  
Hamilton wiggles his eyebrows. “It is never water.” He gestures around dramatically. “Water is not always to be trusted, Laurens, and it cannot provide liquid courage to men who might otherwise retreat.”   
  
“Retreat? Surely not.” Laurens can barely imagine such a thought. “It would be better to die on the field than retreat.”   
  
Hamilton’s expression twists oddly. “As you have said.”   
  
“And you agreed.”   
  
“No, not to the statement in its entirety. I agreed that there is much to be said of battlefield glory, but it is you who spoke of dying for one’s cause.”   
  
This speaking in circles infuriates Laurens. “You taunt at linguistic specifics for a reason, I presume?”   
  
Hamilton shakes his head. “I do not—taunt, as you say. I merely mean to remark that some men should rather live to seek glory another day.”   
  
“You would not retreat.” Laurens is sure of this, somehow.   
  
Hamilton’s eyes narrow. “No, Sir. But I—you misunderstand. I do not seek to simply play Devil’s advocate.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“No!” Hamilton pauses, “Ah, you frustrate me like none other, Laurens.”   
  
Laurens snorts. “The feeling be mutual, Hamilton.”   
  
Hamilton’s lips purse; he seems to begin his argument over.   
  
“You are a Laurens.” As he states such, Hamilton holds up a hand to presumably forestall Laurens’ anger at being associated with his father’s merits yet again. “I mean that as no slight. But it does ensure that, should you fall on the field, you shall be rightfully remembered for such a sacrifice.” His face twists in that odd manner, again. “Whereas I—You have no doubt guessed I have no such connections, as you also guessed my well-guarded origins.”   
  
_He possesses remembrance of last night’s actions, for certainty_.   
  
Laurens is so alarmed by this, he almost misses the rest of Hamilton’s speech.   
  
“If I am to fall now, Laurens, before I have established my name, I will be simply one more fallen soldier amongst countless others. To be remembered, I must _live_ , you understand? At least, _pour le moment_ , until such time as my name may mean something in death.” His tone grows exponentially passionate, and Laurens finds himself entranced. “But you are correct, I should never retreat—not without the General’s order, at any rate.”   
  
Laurens is entrenched where he stands, as though Hamilton’s words provide roots that anchor him to the dust-trodden road, anger turned quick to admiration. He has met none before who can simultaneously infuriate and impress him as Hamilton does. “One like you certainly ought to be remembered, Hamilton; I would like to ensure you survive, then, _pour le moment_.”   
  
Hamilton’s expression shifts again, a shimmering emotion Laurens cannot name moving beneath his skin. “I should not like you to die for me, Laurens. I should not like you to die for any.”   
  
Laurens feels his cheeks flush, curses himself as he is wont. “I should not, then, for any but myself.”   
  
Hamilton hums, but Laurens feels as though he has not been granted the last word in this, even as Hamilton says no more on the subject.  
  
After they mount up again, and continue to ride towards Philadelphia at pace, Hamilton does not drift up the column; he stays riding beside Laurens, though does not speak.   
  
This in itself is unusual, for Laurens does not think he has ever been in Hamilton’s company and the man kept silent, unless he be occupied by non-stop writing. He is not sure how to restart conversation, nor sure Hamilton would respond, if he in the mood to self-reflect quietly.   
  
Laurens is saved from further discomfort by Fitzgerald riding up beside him to ask some question or another, before they somehow tumble full speed into a passionate argument on the merits of abolition.   
  
“I suppose there be much support for it in Europe, then?” Fitzgerald is querying.   
  
“Why, certainly!” Laurens responds heatedly. “And I think we should attempt to emulate such discussion here, if we are truly to create a new nation for all.”   
  
Fitzgerald hums thoughtfully. “The General owns slaves, does he not? As does your father? And they both honourable men.”   
  
Laurens scowls. “I do not name them otherwise; but simply remark upon the idea of our cause being fought for freedom, and yet denying such freedom to all.”   
  
He senses Hamilton turn towards him slightly but, uncharacteristically for one who seems never to resist an argument, or a moment to inject his opinion, _le petit lion_ still says nothing.   
  
Fitzgerald adjusts his hold on his reigns. “I have heard that your father speaks to the happiness of his slaves; that they should be kept content rather than he make a further profit off unhappy backs.”   
  
Laurens shakes his head rapidly. “Respectfully, Sir, that is not the point. Whether they be kept happy or unhappy, they are still kept, are they not?”   
  
“Indeed.” Fitzgerald nods. “But I have also heard argument they should be just as unhappy with freedom; if their life is happy kept, should it be truly responsible to turn them loose?”   
  
Laurens’ hands clench around the reigns. “I concede some may be debased by such servitude as they have been forced into; but should they live free as we might, this will be corrected.”   
  
Fitzgerald still looks sceptical. “You suppose they are truly capable of such intellect as we?”  
  
Laurens grits his teeth, hard pressed not to respond with further anger. “Did I not just say such? I grant that such circumstances have deprived them of much intellect, but this be due to living only in fear, receiving no education and such like. If the circumstances be corrected, thereafter should the intellect be improved where it so lacks, as to match ours.”   
  
“Well, I should hope not,” Fitzgerald harrumphs. “If this prove true, there be none to work the fields, and many a black man in place of a white man.”  
  
Laurens scowls. “If one is proved more capable for an intellectual post than the other, should it not go to them, regardless of race?”   
  
“I do not think we shall be proved truly equal, and I think you a fair hypocrite in this manner, as such an education as you have earned is by virtue of your father’s own plantation.” Fitzgerald does not truly seem overly offended or cross, but neither does he appear willing to capitulate his opinion.  
  
“I should not point out where I think us indecent because of my father? Why, if all did such, nothing would ever get done, Sir!” Laurens is shouting now, realises he has captured the attentions of other officers riding further in front and behind them, cares far less than he ought that he seems to make a spectacle.   
  
Strangely, it is Hamilton who steps in, riding closer to Laurens’ right. “Fitzgerald, have you not been required by Washington lately?” It is clearly a ploy to move Fitzgerald on, but he realises the hint, and rides further up the column with a snort.   
  
For one lacking tact when speaking of his own passions, Hamilton seems strangely determined Laurens should not offend and enrage others in the same manner, as though he seeks to protect Laurens’ reputation. Whilst not unappreciated, it is certainly unrequired—his reputation matters little if it is built on assumptions of his character alone, and not his true principles.   
  
“Sir, I should have liked to continue such discourse,” Laurens mutters, angrily.   
  
Hamilton grins at him wryly. “I see that well, but I think the rest of us would rather you did not.”  
  
Laurens narrows his eyes. “You disagree with these sentiments?”   
  
Hamilton looks at him, blinks slowly, speaks atypically carefully. “I…did not say such. Indeed, I think alike in many respects; a man ought to be able to make his way free in the world regardless of his origins or background.”   
  
Ah, yes, of course. This should apply to Hamilton more than most.   
  
“Then why did you intrude?”   
  
Hamilton grins wider, shrugs. “You come awful close to naming the General immoral and indecent; though I know this not your intent, you must be careful with such words.”   
  
Laurens huffs. “And you would be the model, in this?”   
  
“Not at all!” Hamilton agrees cheerfully, arrogantly. “But my disposition is known well, and tolerated by virtue of my intellect and disconnect to any men of note. You are protected by your father, but as such, are also restricted by him; I should not think Congress would be well pleased to have reports of his son thinking thus on this matter.”   
  
_Bugger my father_ , Laurens wants to say, crudely, but does not. He only shrugs. “I care not what they think of me on this, but I concede to you.” He glances at Hamilton’s smug face, adds: “For now,” in a stern manner.  
  
Hamilton only laughs, flicks the reigns to move off, smirks coyly. “I can only say, I should like to know whether you be so passionate in other such… _intercourse_ as you may be in this.”  
  
With this as a parting statement, Laurens can only stare as Hamilton’s back moves up the column, lost for words, heat stirring in his limbs.   
  
There can be no mistaking what Hamilton implies with words as provocative as these, and it seems certain now that Laurens engages in a dangerous dance he has not yet learnt the steps to.  
  


They arrive in Philadelphia that evening, much as Washington wrote Hancock, and they march through the city as though being presented to its occupants. It is quickly decided they should make for Wilmington, a town slightly further southwest, requiring a crossing of Schuylkill River and Darby Creek. This, because it sits nearer to a mouth of the Delaware River, which Howe is supposedly aiming for. It should also make it far easier to block the shortest routes to Philadelphia.  
  
Washington and his military family are to take up residence on Quaker Hill, in the house of one Captain Caleb Bennett, whilst the army will encamp on the higher land to the west of town, some sent as far as Newport, three miles further.

***

_Bennett House  
Wilmington   
August 25th – September 6th 1777_

The terrible anticipation of waiting upon what moves the British may make ends swiftly after their arrival in Wilmington; they receive word of Howe’s troops having landed in Maryland by the less fortified Chesapeake Bay, rather than by way of Delaware, the evening of the twenty-fifth.   
  
Washington has them immediately dispatch word to Generals Armstrong and Sullivan, and Congress.   
  
His Excellency himself rides with Lafayette and Generals Greene and Weedon for reconnaissance on the twenty-six, a move that soon seems foolhardy, when a storm sweeps over and traps the four at Gray’s Hill, a mere two miles from the Head of Elk, where Howe should intend to march his troops.   
  
Hamilton spends this evening equally split between raging, worrying and writing furiously, his frame jolting slightly at each clap of thunder in a manner that makes Laurens morbidly curious. He makes to touch Hamilton lightly on the back of the hand in some attempt at comfort. Hamilton jolts and sends a scalding glance Laurens’ way; Laurens pays it no mind.   
  
Hamilton is not a man like to admit weakness, but Laurens sees the glazed look of traumatic memory over Hamilton’s eyes, and if a touch and a glare should drag him out of such remembrance, then Laurens should allow any and all scalding gazes.   
  
Two days later, Howe’s army reaches Gray’s Hill, and it seems remarkable the General were not discovered by any British scouts during his unwilling stay.  
  


The time they spend in Wilmington, each day dispatching more and more desperate intelligence on what Howe should, could or will attempt, feels a strange liminal existence.   
  
It is here, though, over the near two weeks in residence, that Laurens finds his uneasy truce with Hamilton over argument and attraction shift towards something akin to genuine friendship, quicker than he should have thought possible.   
  
He wonders on Lafayette’s meaning of men sharing souls alike, and the truth of such words.  
  
It now becomes usual that one will often wake the other of a morn (for each aide is allowed his own bed here, thank the Lord), that they should share jests and companionship over correspondence, that Hamilton should jostle Laurens with his elbow, that Laurens should kick him under the table at untimely comments.  
  
It is such that the other aides have remarked upon it. Tilghman and Meade both speak of it to Laurens separately, joking at how one might make a successful friend of Hamilton when he is more daggers and knives than camaraderie, but Laurens no longer finds him so, and cannot quite explain in a satisfactory manner how or why this should be.   
  
Nevertheless, any day now, they could meet the British in battle, skin painted with blood and sweat, and yet here they sit, at desks, with ink-stained fingers, fuelled by the coffee and wine of the Bennett family. It seems such a removed existence from reality, Laurens finds himself almost desperate for the tension to rupture.  
  


It does, of course, twofold: first, in a heated argument of army strategy, and second, in the incident of Laurens’ cravat.  
  
In the matter of army strategy, Laurens enters the room sequestered for the use of the aides one evening to find Washington, Greene and Hamilton in furious argument on where troops ought to be sent most immediately, with Tallmadge watching quietly, eyes darting furiously between the principle antagonists.   
  
It seems the General would usually assign one Colonel Morgan and his rifleman to the advance guard, but they are already dispatched to assist General Gates in the Hudson River valley against Burgoyne.  
  
Instead, Washington plans on sending seven hundred Continental men, specially picked, and near a thousand militiamen—under the command of Brigadier General William Maxwell—to occupy Iron Hill and Cooch’s Bridge, in an attempt to arrest the forward movement of the British.  
  
It is clear Greene thinks little of this plan, and even less of Maxwell (has, in fact, called him the most inept of the commanders), and wishes instead to move the entire army to this position, where the Christina River makes a strong defence: “For if we are to arrest the British, we ought to do it properly, Your Excellency, and without half-heartedness!”   
  
Laurens is somewhat surprised to witness Hamilton take Greene’s side over Washington’s on the issue, and even further shocked to see him advocate such to the General’s face.  
  
“Sir, if we but make a large enough stand—”   
  
“Hamilton, there is still great need to ensure the fortification of Wilmington, and Red Clay Creek—”  
  
“But, Sir, if we can manage to slow the advance enough before they should even reach—”   
  
“You see, Sir, even your man Hamilton recognises the merit of such a deployment—”   
  
Greene advocating Hamilton seems to only anger Washington further.   
  
“There is to be no more discussion of this, gentlemen, and I make note, Lieutenant Colonel, that you are _not_ a General, and as such—”   
  
“For you will not allow me a command!”   
  
“Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton!”   
  
A ringing silence descends.   
  
Greene departs in bad temper; Tallmadge shows neither agreement nor disagreement bar a narrowing of his eyes at the floor, and a decisive nod in Hamilton’s direction; a dispatch is written to notify Maxwell of his new undertaking.  
  
Hamilton takes to his desk, tense, without so much as a nod, as Washington strides from the room, and he remains in somewhat of a sulk, even as Laurens tries to steer him towards better humour.  
  
“I could have worked under him,” Hamilton finally mutters.   
  
“Pardon?” Laurens is unsure what he refers to.   
  
“Greene,” clarifies Hamilton, eyes flicking up to meet Laurens’. They still simmer with resentment. “He would have had me as an aide, but I refused, for I wished field command.”  
  
“You did not refuse Washington,” Laurens points out.   
  
“No,” Hamilton bites out. “But an aide position with Washington surpasses that of an aide or field command under Greene, and I should need it.”   
  
Laurens hums. “I am sure the General appreciates that you had opportunity to work for many.”   
  
Hamilton’s lips twist cynically. “Ha, I should think he does not, except that he may make use of my intellect without worrying he angers others at delaying my command.”   
  
Laurens frowns, glances down, then leans and whispers: “In any such case, _I_ should appreciate that you work here, in this office, and not any other.”   
  
“Is that so?” Hamilton tilts his head in consideration. “I think that may well satisfy me, John.”  
  
Laurens can feel himself blush, realises this is the first time Hamilton has called him by his Christian name. He is also absurdly pleased: it seems he too can play this risky game of suggestive wit that Hamilton should excel at.   
  


They lose the battle at Cooch’s Bridge, their troops forced into retreat.  
  
Once again, Hamilton notes his discarded opinion correct, but this time merely sets his mouth in a hard line, and dispatches the news to Congress as he is ordered.  
  


In the matter of Laurens’ cravat, an entirely different battle is fought. He wakes late on the fourth September, notes a chill greets the morning, and that he the last aide awake. He dresses slowly, wonders on what Howe might do with this latest victory, reaches for his cravat—but it is not there. He blinks, thinks his mind still addled with sleep, and begins to search the room he shares with Meade and Tilghman, the others across the hall.   
  
The cravat is not on the chair he usually utilises for storage, nor under the bed; he has not placed it back in his trunk. He has no spare at the moment, his other seemingly left behind in the hurry from Warwick. With a huff, he sits on the bed, frowning into space.   
  
Perhaps one of the other aides might lend him one? Mayhap one of them wears his by mistake?  
  
With a sigh, he is supposing he ought not tarry any longer, when he is interrupted by a knock.   
  
“Laurens?” It is Hamilton. “Are you well?”   
  
“Aye,” Laurens calls flatly.   
  
Hamilton opens the door and steps through. “We wondered on your health, you being unlike to rise so late.”  
  
Laurens feels the corner of his mouth lift with the small cheer Hamilton now seems to inspire.   
  
“I suspect that were only so because I shared a bed with you before, Hamilton, and you are quite singular among early risers.”   
  
“Ha.” Hamilton emerges further into the room, comes to stand before Laurens. “Alas, I admit this. Sleep seems a waste when one could be writing.”   
  
Laurens rolls his eyes. “Only to one such as you.”   
  
Hamilton lets out a proper laugh, at that. His gaze flits up and down Laurens’ chest and face. “And I see you not yet even properly dressed!”   
  
At this, Laurens remembers his walkabout cravat, and frowns. “It appears a vital part of my attire has gone missing.”   
  
Mirth sparkles across Hamilton’s face, eyes flashing in a most entrancing manner. “Ah! So it be _your_ unfortunate cravat I rescued.”   
  
Laurens stands. “You have it? I beg that you retrieve it, then, so that I might greet the day clad in the manner that befits a gentleman.”   
  
Hamilton smirks. “That works only so long as the wearer of such items _be_ a gentleman.”   
  
Laurens’ mouth drops open, but he laughs. “You take that back, Sir, or see yourself also labelled in a similarly unbecoming manner!”  
  
Hamilton’s grin widens so much as to reveal teeth. “I think not, Sir!”   
  
Laurens growls, and goes to punch Hamilton’s shoulder playfully, but Hamilton steps lightly out of the room, and retreats.   
  
He returns soon enough, bearing the cravat whose fault this be.   
  
Laurens faces him, scowling insincerely, arms folded. “Am I to suspect you stole this item, Hamilton, so that you might humiliate me?”   
  
Hamilton takes this as the jest it is, and merely chuckles. “Nay, Laurens, you wound me in this accusation! I found it lying on the floor outside this room last night, so I fear the fault lies solely on your absentminded shoulders.”  
  
He grins, holding the cravat out like a man might taunt a bull. Laurens swipes for it, but Hamilton draws it back.   
  
“Hamilton! Give it me.”   
  
“No, Sir.” Hamilton’s eyes tease relentlessly. “I should not trust you with it after such carelessness.”  
  
“ _Hamilton_.”   
  
Hamilton holds up a finger. “I shall assist you instead, so that you may learn the proper manner in which to behave a gentleman.”   
  
Laurens chuckles. “Honestly, Hamilton, we both have work we must be about, and you—”  
  
Hamilton silences him with a single motion. He reaches out and touches Laurens’ neck lightly, just above where one should feel a pulse.   
  
Laurens stills immediately, feels his mouth go dry. Wonders if Hamilton notes how his heart races, every sense focusing solely on the fingertip tracing his skin.   
  
“Hamilton?” he manages to croak out.  
  
Hamilton hums, a light pink colouring his own cheeks, but says nothing. Instead, he reaches up and lays the cravat around Laurens’ neck, biting his lip slightly, worrying at it, as he concentrates on tying the ends together.   
  
Laurens cannot move, and so is forced to stand in terrible anticipation as Hamilton finishes his work, face too close for comfort, his eyes downturned as he knots the fabric one last time, and retreats. His hands drop, and he steps back, avoiding Laurens’ gaze.   
  
“There,” he says gently. “Now you are dressed as a man ought to be.” His eyes flick up to Laurens’ face once, heated, darkening, and then away. “I should think you look well in it.” Hamilton pauses, then abruptly says: “I should also think we be needed.”   
  
He turns on his heel and hurries out the door.   
  
Laurens is left gazing after him, neck still tingling, swallowing repeatedly.   
  
_What is he—? What is this—?  
  
_ Are they to endlessly dance around it, then? Pretend whatever _it_ may be affects either of them not at all? Are they just to be content in easy friendship, the close camaraderie they develop?   
  
Oh, Laurens knows he ought to be content with this—more than content with this, as it be deemed a feat of its own to find such friendship with Alexander Hamilton, by all accounts—and so, he should be, he should, he should, he _should—  
_  
But then, at his desk once more, Hamilton will glance at him _just so_ over their mountains of correspondence; the candlelight will brush _just so_ over Hamilton’s shining hair, and Laurens knows he is irreversibly lost to this mercurial, frustrating, mesmerising man.  
  
Mayhap he should simply ask Reed to glare damningly at him; send him also straight to Hell without divine judgment having to be wrought upon his head.

***

Events move at pace, after this, and Laurens is lucky to be distracted by many things. Firstly, he receives a letter from his father; it addresses nothing Laurens writ previously, but instead complains of remarks a Prussian foreign officer spoke on Maxwell:   
  
_—“Your soldiers are very good men, so good as any brave men in the world, but your officers my dear Colonel, your officers…”  
  
I understand him, John, and believe he is pretty just in his meaning—  
  
_and Laurens thinks Lafayette may be proven correct in his presumption foreign command should improve matters greatly.   
  
On the fifth, Washington has them ride out to the encampment, where he stands and speaks to the army of the battles brewing closer and closer, the importance of the fight they stand behind.   
  
“Should the British push their design against Philadelphia, on this route, their all is at stake. They will put the contest on the event of a single battle. If they are overthrown, they are utterly undone, and the war is at an end.”   
  
Laurens thinks these stirring words, if likely slightly exaggerated; there are other fronts they fight the British on still, after all.   
  
“The eyes of all America, and of Europe are turned upon us. The important moment is at hand, which demands our most spirited exertions in the field. There, glory waits to crown the brave, and peace, freedom and happiness will be the rewards of victory.”   
  
“And hopefully, too, a place in the making of this nation,” Hamilton mutters into Laurens’ ear, and Laurens smiles fondly, knowing that goal be more Hamilton’s than his, but it is noble nonetheless.  
  
On the sixth, Laurens is woken by Hamilton brandishing the day’s General Orders in his face, where he squints through sleep slicked eyes to read:   
  
_John Laurens is appointed Extra-Aide-de Camp to the Commander in Chief: all orders therefore thro’ him in writing, or otherwise, are to be regarded in the same light as if proceeding from any other of his Aides-de-Camp.  
_  
Eyes widening, he sits up from the blankets, paper trembling in hand.   
  
“It is made official, then? I am known as an extra-aide-de-camp to all?”  
  
“Indeed,” laughs Hamilton, true happiness seeming to shine through his manner. “Congratulations, Laurens! You are now no longer my shadow; next business being to make you an aide-de-camp of the green riband, a Lieutenant Colonel, with no such ‘extra’ attached.”   
  
Laurens chuckles heartily. “One move forward at a time is all I think I dare to imagine.”   
  
Hamilton’s answering grin is one of the most sincere Laurens has witnessed. He clasps Laurens on the shoulder, the touch burning through the thin fabric of only his shirt, and Laurens’ heart constricts, terror and elation roiling in his stomach, because, oh, how he _wants_ , sin and criminality aside.  


Celebration of Laurens’ official appointment is like to take place some other time hence, as that very day Washington becomes certain Howe should advance toward Wilmington to take Philadelphia, and so moves headquarters to Newport, forming a defence between there and Marshallton.

As they pour over a map indicating army placements, Laurens feels his pulse begin to quicken; possibly it knows the likelihood of its continuing is endangered further with each hour, as the looming battle moves off the horizon and hastens towards them with speed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (It's a long note; sorry!) 
> 
> I know it’s been a sloooow burn, but never fear, I promise shits nearly here! As in next chapter… ;)
> 
> Research for this took most of a Sunday afternoon, but I’m a huge history nerd, so not a big sacrifice :D I do now know way more about the Delaware/Chesapeake Bay/Philadelphia area than is necessary for someone who isn’t American though lol
> 
> Letters/extracts from:   
> -“General Orders, 5 September 1777” https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/03-11-02-0147   
> -“General Orders, 6 September 1777” https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/03-11-02-0158   
> -“From George Washington to John Hancock, 23 August 1777” https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/03-11-02-0049   
> \- “Itinerary of General Washington from June 15, 1775, to December 23, 1783” 
> 
> French translations:   
> -Mon cher: My dear  
> -Très bientôt: Very soon  
> \- C'est vrai: It is true  
> -Tu comprends?: You understand?  
> -Si je ne me trompe pas?: If I am not mistaken?   
> -Ami et père: Friend and father   
> -Une commande française: A French command 
> 
> And a note on slavery: Yep, John Laurens was abolitionist, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he believed black & white people were entirely equal; also, he didn’t treat the slaves his father sent with him to the war particularly well. This doesn’t negate the fact that he was significantly more enlightened, and did more, than many other 18th century men on the issue, but it does demonstrate history—and by extension, idealising of Laurens for his stance—is not that simple. I won’t be touching on it much more in this fic anyway; particularly as a non-American, I’m not prepared to handle such a complex issue in what is, mostly, a fun piece of fiction (fiction being the important thing; none of these characters truly represent their real life counterparts!) :)


	5. How Battle May Heighten Emotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all :) We’ve finally made it to Brandywine, and to emotionally idiotic oblivious revolutionaries becoming somewhat less oblivious (but not really less emotionally idiotic—yet :p) It’s a long one, so strap in. Onwards!

_Benjamin Ring House  
Chadds Ford   
September 9th – 11th 1777_

Hamilton is chewing the end of his quill, a disquieting habit he seems to participate in unconsciously whenever he concentrates at length, and which infuriates Laurens to no end.   
  
Regrettably, however, he is left unable to rebuke him, as they currently sit against the edges of the room with the aides of both Washington and others. The attentions of all are focused on His Excellency, and the various other Generals who strategize, argue and shove pieces around a map, carefully placed on a large table in the middle of the room.   
  
Laurens desperately attempts to stifle a yawn. The current environment of apprehension and speed lends itself badly to rest, and he being still sleep deprived from the army’s swift flight north, undertaken to establish a defensive position against the British before they should arrive.   
  
Howe’s forces aim a move through Newark, Milltown and Hockessin into Pennsylvania, in lieu of attacking the Continentals’ position near Newport. The General were made aware by scouts of such an intention only very late in the eve—almost too late.  
  
And so, a march at two in the morn just one day previous, shivering and yawning amidst the darkness; Tilghman having awoken him prior to such with an unsympathetic sheath of papers smacked round the head, and a loud, “Make haste, Laurens!”  
  
Hamilton had not required waking, as he had yet to leave his desk. How the man manages to stay upright, let alone concentrate with such intensity, Laurens does not know.   
  
Today, that of the ninth—can it be truly only a month since he first commenced his post in this army?—they wait, headquarters organised in the home of a Quaker, Benjamin Ring, with the likely battleground chosen a mile east, and a council of war being conducted in earnest.  
  
Laurens shifts ever so slightly in his chair, his left foot like to turn to numbness if he does not, which draws the quick glance of Hamilton, seated to his right.   
  
Hamilton has been ridiculously curled over his travel desk, transcribing at pace, but now he straightens slightly with a wince, and the quill end leaves his mouth; good God, it even looks chewed. Laurens shall have to speak to him about this, for it appears rather unbecoming of one with an intellect such as he possesses.  
  
Hamilton casts a significant look at Laurens’ far less ink-filled page, and Laurens rolls his eyes, making certain to ensure eye contact is kept throughout.   
  
Hamilton presses his lips together hard, in a manner Laurens recognises as a desperate attempt to contain improper mirth.   
  
Emboldened, Laurens takes this a further step; winks quickly with as expressionless a face as possible.   
  
Hamilton’s mouth starts to curve proper, and he very clearly bites the inside of his cheek to arrest laughter.  
  
Laurens stifles his own smile, before he feels an elbow jab sharp into his left side.   
  
He jerks, flicks his eyes in that direction.   
  
Tilghman is glaring at him, though it does not appear in earnest anger; more a warning than a true reprimand. He mouths very clearly, an almost whisper: _You are both alike to ill-behaved schoolchildren_ , and Laurens subsides. A warning from Harrison may make one feel disappointed in oneself, and a warning from Reed anger; a warning from Tilghman is made all the more serious for his usually partaking in the joke.   
  
Laurens carefully returns his attention to the debating generals.   
  
His Excellency is speaking; presses his forefinger hard into several spots on the map.   
  
“If we are to compel a meeting with the British at Chadds Ford, we must have means to ensure that they be forced to cross there with certainty.”   
  
Many of the other generals nod; Laurens knows not the names of some.   
  
The next to speak, though, he knows well.   
  
Greene surveys the map critically. “Should we not, then, Sir, create a manner in which Howe’s troops must be funnelled? If we are to place men, say, here—” he points to a spot on the map, “Or here?” Another spot, close to the first.   
  
Washington’s gaze sweeps the map’s length. “Not or,” he murmurs, “But and.”   
  
“Sir?” questions another of the generals; Laurens thinks him a Major General Stephen, perhaps?  
  
Washington grins slightly. “I think Greene in the correct mind; if we guard the other fords above and below Chadds Ford, we should have a fair chance of manufacturing such a confrontation.”  
  
Hamilton jots this down; Laurens does not. He awaits the actual battle orders for his report, but Hamilton will likely require more information, he being the aide among them trusted to assess and make his own decisions without dictation; another interesting illustration of Washington’s reliance on him.   
  
There is a small amount more debate on the logistics and effectiveness of such an approach to battle as this—a small amount more being, in actuality, close to another hour of debate—before the various generals seem set upon the makings of a plan, and Washington begins barking orders, issuing commands.   
  
A flurry of quills set to writing, and the room echoes with the sounds of rustling pages, as the many aides present commence jotting and addressing dispatches.   
  
“Armstrong will have his thousand strong militia here—” a prod to the map, “At Pyle’s Ford, six or so miles to our south, so that he may guard against British advance and reinforce the main battle with haste, should it be required. Greene shall be positioned to the right of Armstrong’s flank, in Chadds Ford proper, Wayne—” Wayne being a Major General, Laurens remembers, “On his right.”   
  
“Sir,” Wayne, Armstrong and Greene chorus with agreement, though Armstrong seems perhaps rather dour about the mouth; likely he should prefer to be further within Chadds Ford, where the main battle is planned to occur. Though he should not be very far from it nonetheless, Laurens does not blame him for this.   
  
“Sullivan—” for the infamous Sullivan of Staten Island notoriety has reached their main army with what remains of his, “You will cover the high ground to the north of Chadds Ford, extending your forces in this direction on the Brandywine’s eastern banks.”   
  
Sullivan acquiesces, saying little, and Laurens feels himself irrationally angry the man should still hold command at all. What of one with such talent and loyalty as Lafayette?   
  
“Stephen’s and Lord Stirling’s divisions shall be positioned beside Sullivan’s, Stirling on the far right flank of such. Fitzgerald?”   
  
Fitzgerald leaps to his feet. “Sir?”   
  
Washington nods sharply at him. “Immediate dispatch of this to Major General Lord Stirling, if you would.”   
  
“Yes, Sir.” Fitzgerald hastily scrawls and folds the requested missive, striding quickly from the room, as Stirling has not made appearance at the Council, for some reason or another that Laurens is not privy too.   
  
“We should also have need of Colonel Hazen’s brigade; they shall cover Buffington’s Ford and Wister’s Ford.”   
  
Meade is sent to deliver this dispatch with haste; Hazen not being present by virtue of his being not a General.   
  
There is further discussion occurring on which other Generals, divisions, brigades, militia should be positioned where in Chadds Ford, when they are interrupted by way of news from a scout: Howe’s forces have reached Kennett Square, a mere seven miles west of their position.   
  
Receiving such information as this, the council is hurriedly completed. Though they know not when the British may intend to meet them in battle, it likely be soon, thus it is imperative their positions be established immediately.  
  
Washington remains staring at the map, pushing pieces here and there, for a fair while longer post the departing of his Generals. His aides remain, having yet to be dismissed.   
  
“You think it an absolute certainty the British will meet us here, Sir? That they shall not attempt to creep past, as they did at Newport?” This from Tilghman, who is frowning rather ferociously at an ink blot that has accidented his page.   
  
Washington does not speak a moment, and when he does, his tone is soft, but as sure as Laurens has ever heard it.  
  
“They will not try as they did at Newport.” He raises his head, meets Tilghman’s gaze firmly; Tilghman ceases worrying at his page. “For they know we now guard their surest path to Philadelphia; in this, I am certain. Our soldiers shall meet theirs on the field. All we may do now, Gentleman, is rally well for our cause, and pray God may favour us.”  
  
Tilghman nods once, sharply, reverently, and Laurens wonders on whether any of the men in this room might fall.   
  
“Are we to take the field, Sir?” That is Hamilton, of course, surging to his feet, eyes flashing.   
  
Washington surveys him a long, quiet minute. “You know well the duties of an aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Colonel. I should think you will see enough action as you undertake such.”   
  
“So, we will not,” mutters Hamilton, and Laurens, though he knows himself rash, wishes to press a hand against the man’s mouth to stop these intractable words.  
  
Washington does nothing but to glance once more at Hamilton, with a hardness that should cause even Laurens to quail, but Hamilton only stands in a manner that epitomises defiance.  
  
The General shakes his head once, leaves the room.   
  
Laurens realises he holds his breath, and quickly gasps to rectify such a situation.   
  
Harrison’s gaze sweeps over Hamilton, Laurens, Reed and Tilghman. The open uneasiness in his face suddenly paints him the man of early thirties he is, than the man of fifty or so he often acts.  
  
“We ought to tend to our correspondence; looming battles make for much paperwork.”   
  
Reed nods sharply, as does Tilghman, who adds: “And we with many field orders to copy, Meade and Fitzgerald leaving their work to us for the moment.”   
  
Hamilton also nods, mouth in a hard, tight line as he strides to drag furniture away from walls and refill inkpots that suffered loss over the council.   
  
Laurens only watches, suddenly strangely aware that some living men such as these should soon cease to draw breath, and he blinks, rotting bones and bleeding corpses superimposed a moment over the unmarked skin and unblooded uniforms of his fellow aides.   
  
This morbid imagining is broken when Hamilton glances up at him, eyes still irate, and barks: “Laurens, do you forget how your legs work? Some help with this desk should be appreciated,” and his legs do indeed move forward, but it takes a second longer than this for the broken bodies to clear from behind his eyes when he blinks.   
  


The next eve, Laurens finds himself standing in a small knot of trees to the left rear of the house, gaze drawn almost hypnotically to the shifting colours of the sunset. The night air carries a chill that would not be found in Charleston until later in the season, though it be found amply in the fall months of Europe.  
  
Mayhap there is correspondence he ought to engage in, but he is filled with a restlessness that makes his body feel it be too fragile to encompass his bones, as though this solid shape that contains all thoughts and emotions and fears in one place be too small to house such, producing the uneasy impression of being trapped under membrane stretched over something it cannot hope to contain.   
  
He should wish to grasp a sword or bayonet in such a moment and _charge_ , feed this sensation that calls for swift action, but though even now scouts be watching for British movement, Howe is stubbornly immovable.   
  
Yet, an ominous feeling remains: that this should be the last night he may behold ere his first battle commences.  
  
And so, Laurens observes the sunset, shifting sky bathing him in a red-soaked glow, chin raised, back pressed against a tree, the sharp intrusion of its bark through his coat grounding him in _now_.   
  
So caught up is he in this observation of nature, he does not mark Hamilton’s approach until the other man stands but three feet from him, head tilted questioningly.   
  
“We were wondering on your disappearance, Laurens.” The red-orange of Hamilton’s hair is darkened to nearer ruby in the eerie light, and Laurens should wish very much to run his fingers through its tangles.   
  
Of course, he does no such thing.   
  
“I very much doubt Reed should lend any care at all to my whereabouts.”   
  
Hamilton hums. “Not he, I grant. But Harrison. Meade.”   
  
“And you.”   
  
A pause.   
  
“And I.”  
  
Laurens huffs, but smiles, straightening and stepping away from the tree. “It occurs to me that this could very well be my last sunset; it seems a great shame to miss it.”   
  
Hamilton steps closer, mouth tightening, shadows growing behind his eyes. “It could be any’s,” he murmurs softly. “Though I doubt it be ours; we are not set to ride into the thick of it, and battle may not occur so soon as tomorrow.”  
  
“No,” agrees Laurens. “But I should hate to miss it all the same.”   
  
Hamilton chuckles lightly. “The battle or the sunset?”   
  
Laurens smirks slightly at this jest. “Both I should think; you well know my opinion of seizing the opportunities of battle.”  
  
“Hmm.” Hamilton turns away, also raises his gaze to the sky. “Indeed. I should not thank the General for keeping me from the field, but I should thank him greatly in your case.”   
  
Laurens frowns. “And why so?”   
  
Hamilton’s eyes tick towards him. “You seem the most like of us all to seek death on the field for such glory as you wish, and I should not like this office to lose you so soon.”   
  
Laurens crosses his arms. “I have argued my point on this before; I shall not again. I would not seek death without just cause.”   
  
Hamilton refuses to look in his direction now. “I do not think any cause just enough to warrant your death.”   
  
“ _Hamilton_.”   
  
Laurens thought they truly friends now, that Hamilton understood his motives in this, his beliefs, his most sincere wishes.   
  
It seems it is not so.   
  
He is far more disappointed than he should be.   
  
However, Hamilton turns rapidly to face him, as though he senses Laurens’ misgivings. “I do not belittle how you should feel on this matter, Laurens. I only—”   
  
Words appear to fail the renowned orator, a state of affairs that should most certainly be documented for the delight of the other aides.  
  
“You only—?” Laurens prompts.   
  
“ _Ha_.” Hamilton sounds more dissatisfied than amused. “You are so—” He throws his hands in the air, strands of hair catching and shining in his eyelashes. “It be only a month gone that we have shared friendship, you realise.”   
  
Laurens smiles slyly. “You think we share friendship? I thought myself merely a convenient foil to your wit.”   
  
Hamilton rolls his eyes, a grin quirking. “Mostly that, _bien sûr_ , but more than simply acquainted, I should hope?”  
  
“I should agree,” Laurens replies, though this seems almost a miracle considering how he found Hamilton upon arrival.   
  
Hamilton pinches his nose between his right thumb and forefinger. “I only say that—There have been none able to steal so rapidly into my good humour; particularly where I were so adamantly determined to bestow none, and I should not—” He glances away, colour rising in his cheeks, though it could be only a reflection of the sunset. “I should not like to lose you when we are so little distance into our acquaintance.”   
  
Laurens blinks once. Twice. Touches an uncertain hand to his queue and fiddles with the ribbon, head ducked. “I should not like to lose you at such a junction either, Hamilton.”   
  
Hamilton hums, then reaches out and tugs once, lightly, on a few strands of Laurens’ hair that lie loose. “Then do not seek death yet, Sir.”   
  
Laurens nods shakily, brings his hand up slowly to tap the back of Hamilton’s once where it still holds his hair captive. “I will not then, Sir, and neither shall you.”   
  
He wishes to add something more, do something more, demand something more of Hamilton, but the man turns away quick, releasing Laurens’ hair.   
  
“Come back to the house now, Laurens, else the British mark you before any,” he calls over his shoulder and Laurens does, still feeling as though soft touches lace his hair.  
  
It seems that they pretend ignorance behind this dance as they ever have.  
  


The eleventh dawns with thick fog and harsh dreariness.   
  
Soon after nine, Washington receives reports from Maxwell of vanguard movement, Queen’s Rangers and shots; the British column marches directly for Chadds Ford with a General Knyphausen at its head.  
  
This be it, then, Laurens supposes, going still and silent and ready; a rare moment in time where one is as like to die as not, and where dying may perchance offer more reward, were it not for a promise given to live.

***

The booming of the cannons and the screams, both men and horse, have since quickly become sounds that appear as though one has never lived without them, though Laurens marks that his ears ring constantly, from his position surveying the battleground beside Washington and the other aides.   
  
Though the fog has cleared somewhat, it is still remarkedly difficult to ascertain what exactly occurs in the Ford, with both armies having clashed along a three mile stretch since the morn, and it now likely past noon.   
  
The awful restlessness inside Laurens grows, as he wishes for nothing more than to gallop out and join the fray.  
  
He feels Lafayette’s gaze upon him. “Patience, _mon amie._ You may yet have a chance at valour, _ne t'inquiète pas_.”   
  
Laurens frowns, keenly aware that Hamilton and Meade have not yet returned from whence they were sent with dispatches and requests of how other Generals fare. “I should not—” He huffs. “I do not enjoy observing whilst other men die before me.”   
  
Lafayette opens his mouth to reply, but is cut off by another round of cannon fire. He turns to face the Ford. “Should we suppose Greene and Wayne’s divisions match the British? This fight is _très prolongé, n'est-ce pas_?”   
  
Laurens gestures in a so-so motion as his horse skitters beneath him. The fight certainly lasts, but he is not as experienced in such matters as Lafayette; cannot tell if this be for good or ill. He is interrupted from further worrying discourse by Fitzgerald’s heralding shout.   
  
“Meade!”   
  
And then, not a minute later, “There! Hamilton! What news, Sirs?”   
  
Laurens is hit with a wave of relief he did not even realise he desired so acutely.   
  
The General turns his horse abruptly from where he watches the battlefield with keen eyes.   
  
Meade is very red in the face, his usually neat hair springing in all directions. He waves a hand at Hamilton to speak first, which Hamilton likely would have done, invitation or no.   
  
“Your Excellency, Sir, there are disquieting reports—”   
  
But Meade interrupts, wheezing. “These be the reports of Colonel Hazen, yes?”   
  
Hamilton barely spares him a glance. “Indeed. Sir, Colonel Hazen says—”   
  
“General Sullivan dismisses these as false reports; there are a multitude of others saying otherwise.”   
  
“Yes, but should Hazen’s reports be proven correct—”   
  
“There is no—”   
  
“Gentlemen!” Washington interrupts, eyes fiery and tone angrier than is usual. “There is not time for such bickering; I would have you remember we are in the midst of a battle!”   
  
Hamilton snaps his mouth shut, works his jaw, then restarts. “Colonel Hazen reported earlier that one of his men spied British troops near to Buffington’s Ford.”   
  
At this, Washington looks extremely alarmed. “Approaching Stirling’s right flank?”   
  
“Yes, Sir.”   
  
“Sir,” begins Meade. “Sullivan thinks this likely false, as there have been no further reports of such, and with the fight so fierce here, as Greene and Wayne report, it seems unlikely Howe should have split his men so.”   
  
Laurens frowns, suggests: “We assume much, on this, as we do not truly know Howe’s numbers, after his managing to evade us before—perhaps those present in the Ford do not represent the true amount.”   
  
Washington’s look of alarm deepens into a scowl as is his eyes tick back and forth between his arguing aides and the field of battle.   
  
“Fitzgerald!” he barks.   
  
“Sir!”   
  
“Pen a missive and ride swift for Colonel Hazen’s position; gather more detail on these supposed reports.”   
  
“Yes, Sir!”   
  
As Fitzgerald scribbles out a message, ink pot wobbling dangerously, Washington addresses Tilghman.   
  
“Tilghman, you are to ride for Sullivan; see that he is not dismissing anything that may be of import. Swiftly, man!”   
  
Tilghman spins his horse round and rides almost immediately north west for Sullivan’s position; Fitzgerald following soon after for Hazen’s.   
  
Harrison is also sent rapidly, with a missive for Colonel Bland, the head of a scout regiment, on the urgency of investigating such rumours.   
  
— _I earnestly entreat continuance of your vigilant attention to the movements of the Enemy and the earliest report, not only of their movements, but of their number, & the course they are pursuing_—  
  
Laurens feels himself tense at reading these words, a muscle ticking in his jaw. If these reports should prove correct, their cause may well face disaster, and Philadelphia, _his father—  
_  
No. It is better not to think on such.   
  
But, not ten minutes after Meade and Tilghman have been dispatched, and not five after Harrison has ridden, a horseman is spotted near flying towards them, such is his speed. As he grows closer, Laurens realises he wears the uniform of the 1st Continental Light Dragoons; the dispatch and scout regiment under the aforementioned Colonel Bland.   
  
He feels his stomach drop at the open fear on the man’s face, a bloody cut partially obscuring one eye.  
  
“Sir!” the scout gasps out, at volume. “General Washington, Sir!”   
  
Washington looks to the scout, and though his expression changes not at all, Laurens reads the apprehension clear in his posture.   
  
The scout wipes the blood from his eye, puffs: “The British! They have flanked us, Sir, through Jefferies and Trimble’s Fords! They approach from the rear of Generals Stirling and Stephen, though do not engage as of yet.”   
  
Laurens feels his jaw go slack. Such an immense diversion, such a vast misdirection as _this_ —  
  
The General springs to action, the calm in his authority belying the rapidly more dire situation.

“Hamilton, ride immediately for Sullivan. Have him take overall command of Stephen and Stirling’s divisions, turn-about, and march to form up near Dilworth in order to meet this flank attack. I shall join him as soon as I am able.”   
  
“Sir,” agrees Hamilton. “Sir, if I may—”  
  
Washington gives him a stern glance. “Remain with Sullivan for dispatch duties.”   
  
“Yes, Sir.” Hamilton’s jaw is tight, but he makes no more argument to take the field. Laurens glances at him in a manner he hopes conveys the sentiment of _stay safe_ , but Hamilton rides before he may have a returned glance.   
  


As word of the secreted British flank attack is spread, the forces of Knyphausen appear to rally and press an assault across Greene’s centre, which weakens fast, Maxwell and Armstrong seeming to begin a retreat. Laurens can do nothing but wish, nothing but want, and such drives him mad, he _must_ assist, he must take the field, he—  
  
As he goes to request this of Washington, Tilghman comes streaking back towards them through the smoke and dust, black powder marring the right shoulder of his uniform, his horse’s sides slicked with sweat.   
  
“Your Excellency!” he all but screams, terrible urgency clear in his tone, “General Washington! We were caught before the line could form! Sullivan’s division is routed, and Stirling and Stephen waver against the British light infantry, grenadiers, and _jäger_!”  
  
Laurens is dismayed to realise Tilghman sports a nasty gash across his cheek, yet appears to take no notice of it.  
  
“What of Hamilton?” he finds himself querying, anxiously.   
  
Tilghman barely spares a glance. “I know not; it is chaos on the field.”   
  
The fear Laurens feels at this is both bone deep, and ridiculous. Such terror as this for a merely month-known friend should be absurd.  
  
“Your Excellency, _Général_.” That is Lafayette, chafing at the bit as his horse does. “Sir, _laissez-moi vous aider, s'il vous plaît_.”   
  
“Sir,” Laurens translates softly. “Let me help you, please.”   
  
Washington’s face tightens, pain behind his eyes, but he nods, once, fiercely. “Ride, Lafayette. It seems our forces have need of you, if we are to salvage any from this.”   
  
Laurens finds himself desperate. He cannot sit any longer, listen to the screams of men dying, knowing that Hamilton may be in danger, that Lafayette rides to danger, that this battle may be a loss—  
  
“Sir,” he says, clenching the reins tight. “I would fight. Send me with Lafayette, Sir.”   
  
Washington eyes him silently, gunpowder blowing in the breeze behind him appearing to halo him as a battlefield god. “You would fight, would you, Laurens?”   
  
Laurens nods steadfastly. “I would, Sir, for this were my very purpose in joining the cause.”   
  
Washington regards him a moment longer. “Go, then. May the Lord watch over you.”   
  
With that, Laurens is away, galloping after Lafayette, blood singing beneath his skin as though it knows it may soon be exposed to the terror soaked air.   
  


Tilghman speaks true; the lines where Stephen and Stirling meet the British flank attack are chaos. Blue and red coats mingle on the field, any semblance of organisation lost, all of it hidden in an eerie otherworldly manner beneath the haze of cannon and musket fire.  
  
Lafayette’s gaze desperately seeks the Generals, any modicum of authority, but Laurens finds his eyes seeking red hair, though this be an impossible task, as the colour is everywhere—red coats, red blood, red puddles on the hoof churned ground.   
  
He spies a young continental, back to a charging redcoat, and surges forward, bayonet going straight through the attacking Englishman’s throat.   
  
He stares a moment, sound receding to nothing, as the man’s heart pumps his blood in a spray out the neck, each droplet of mist signalling the end of a life as he slumps before Laurens to his knees, topples sideways, moves no more.   
  
He, John Laurens, has just taken a man’s life, and without so much as a second thought.   
  
His hands are bloodied.  
  
But he is given no longer to think on it, for then, he is in the fight.   
  
It is a strange thing, but he does not feel terror, nor dread, nor panic; only calm, as though he were always meant to wield a weapon, always meant to use steel to stab, and cut, and parry. The feeling of restlessness fades, as every part of his body focuses on defending his person, keeping himself _alive, alive, alive_.   
  
Time seems meaningless, endless, circular, as each instant he turns his horse he comes upon another redcoat, another man that should want him dead as much as he should wish on them. He knows not where Lafayette has gone, knows not who is winning, if they retreat, if one side prevails.   
  
There is nothing but the _boom_ of cannons and muskets, the guttural shouts of desperate men, the squeals of injured horses and the agonising moans of the dying, the smell of gunpowder and metallic iron, the scent of weapons mixed with blood.  
  
And then—  
  
His horse shrieks, stumbles to the side; he shoves himself from the saddle as she goes down hard, narrowly missing his torso.  
  
Laurens wheezes a moment, winded terribly, but is given no repast, for a man in a tattered red coat is upon him, bayonet inches from his throat. He yells in shock, the man flinching at the sound, and drives a knee up, hard, between the redcoat’s legs.   
  
The man yelps, throws an elbow out, which catches Laurens under the jaw, hard enough he hopes it not broken.   
  
As he groans from the impact, the man has recovered, and again drives his bayonet at Laurens, but his chest this time. Such a strange intimate moment, where they grapple so close, and where such a moment should end with one of them devoid of breath.   
  
Laurens grasps for his own weapon desperately, but it must have fallen too far from him, and so he frantically shoves a forearm under the other man’s chest, presses upwards as hard as he can, breaths coming shorter and shorter as the bayonet inches closer and closer, scrabbles his legs against the ground, manages another knee under the man, shoves upwards.   
  
The man jolts sideways, falls off him clumsily, and Laurens forces himself to standing, spying his musket, bayonet still—thank God!—attached. He goes to dive for it—  
  
He is knocked down by a blow to the ankle, so powerful and painful he should think himself shot.  
  
Quick as he can manage, Laurens forces himself up to kneeling, groaning with the pain, searching desperately through the haze for his adversary—  
  
Who lies not two feet away, dead, musket ball wound through ruined neck.  
  
Laurens blinks once, twice, breaths slowing. Compels himself to glance down at his ankle, reluctantly.   
  
His boot is intact; he is not shot, and it appears unbroken, though now aches something terrible.   
  
Perhaps he be bruised or sprained by the musket ball that killed the redcoat; its momentum slowed by the unfortunate man’s neck?  
  
He is given barely any time to think on it, however, before another redcoat is charging at him, as he still sits.   
  
This time, he grabs for his bayonet, brings it up as the soldier lunges, stabbing under his jaw and up through the roof of his mouth.   
  
The man crumples over Laurens, his blood soaking Laurens’ shirt, but he manages to shove him off, ankle throbbing, energy spent; belatedly realising, by the shift in light, it likely now hours since he first joined Stirling’s flagging forces.   
  
He cannot recount how many he might have sent to their graves.  
  
His eyes start to slip shut with awful exhaustion, he forces them open—  
  
“Laurens!”   
  
That voice he should know anywhere, he thinks.  
  
He turns his head to his left, spies a figure on a horse slowing beside him.   
  
Hamilton.   
  
Laurens has never been so glad to see a man living, even more so for it being Hamilton.   
  
“Laurens, are you shot?” Hamilton looks frantic, sounds even more so, rides closer, head swinging this way and that, appearing to scope for any threats.   
  
“Nay,” Laurens manages to shake his head, though his jaw aches terribly. “I am not. This be not my blood.” He gestures tiredly at the dead redcoat beside him, whose arm still lies over his legs partially.   
  
He shoves him off with disgust.   
  
Hamilton seems to slump in the saddle.   
  
“Oh, _mon Dieu_. At distance I thought you grievously wounded.”   
  
“You feared for me?” Laurens teases, though his voice sounds thin with fatigue.   
  
Hamilton mutters something that sounds rather unflattering under his breath. “I should fear for any that Lafayette describes fighting so.”   
  
“Lafayette also lives?” Laurens finds himself incredibly relieved, but Hamilton’s mouth twists.   
  
“He were shot in the leg, but still he refuses to retire from the field, the French fool. He is adamant he lead the men into an orderly retreat, else we lose even more, and be captured in our ill organisation.”   
  
“Retreat?” Laurens feels his eyes blow wide, heart sinking horribly at both the news of Lafayette’s wound and the army’s status. “We are in retreat?”   
  
Hamilton’s eyes are hard and unhappy. “Aye, and this be why I were seeking you; I saw your horse shot not far from here and feared the worst.”   
  
“But retreat, Sir?”   
  
Hamilton gestures at him. “Climb up and I shall explain; we head for Chester and pray the British do not pursue.”   
  
Laurens clambers unsteadily to his feet, wincing and limping.   
  
“You _are_ wounded!” Hamilton exclaims. “You said not.”   
  
Laurens waves a dismissive hand as he clumsily mounts up behind Hamilton, avoiding weight on his injured ankle. “It is nothing; barely an injury, let alone a wound of any kind.”   
  
Hamilton huffs sceptically, but allows it, as he wheels his horse around to a gallop, speeds after the retreating Continental lines.

***

It be a fourteen mile ride to Chester—Laurens fortunate enough to share Hamilton’s horse and spare his ankle—though many of the men must walk, and assist their wounded compatriots where they can.  
  
It emerges that what remains of the entire Continental Army is in retreat; at Dilworth, General Knox defends their backs with artillery, Greene with the remnants of those left of Sullivan, Stirling and Stephen’s divisions after they were flanked and defeated. General Weedon does the same on the road outside Dilworth, allowing the retreat of the divisions at Chadds Ford.   
  
Their retreat proves organised, as Hamilton spoke, largely in part due to Lafayette’s rallying, though the young Frenchman now requires treatment for his wound and heavy blood loss.  
  
Laurens worries greatly on this, for what if it results from such immense courage that Lafayette should lose his leg? What if, God forbid, he should lose his _life_?   
  
Such a thought seems untenable to entertain, but it frets at him, refuses to be let go, swirling round and round and round his mind.  
  
And yet still, above all else, there is a further irretrievable fact:   
  
They have _lost_.   
  
Laurens muses dismally on such as they ride through the darkness to Chester, the British abandoning their pursuit as night falls. Despite all their planning, their positioning, Washington’s orders—they have lost.   
  
When he and Hamilton arrive at Chester near midnight, they are finally reunited with their fellow aides-de-camp. The happiness at all having lived is subdued; the knowledge the British will now most certainly take Philadelphia in the near future, heavy.   
  
Aside from Laurens’ bruised jaw and swelling ankle, Tilghman’s cheek gash appears the only other injury; the rest merely seeming dirtied by dust, powder and sweat, and far past the point of exhaustion.   
  
Hurriedly, a make-shift camp is established; the stragglers of Greene’s and the others’ divisions slowly trooping into the encampment as the oppressive night turns towards dawn.

After much worrying, hurrying and searching—though more painful limping, truthfully, in the case of Laurens—he and Hamilton manage to locate Lafayette. The Frenchman is quartered in a tent very near to Washington’s, and has already been seen to by the surgeon, musket ball removed and wound stitched.

He shall not lose the leg, nor his life, thank merciful God, though he seems to have tried his hardest to do so, obstinately riding on such an injured limb for so long.  
  
When they enter the tent, Lafayette is lying on his cot, wounded leg propped up, breeches and bandages greatly bloodstained, but he immediately stretches his hands towards each of them, grasping insistently.   
  
“ _Mes amis les plus chers_! You both yet draw breathe! Ah, but I am much relieved to know this, for I did worry so, _vous les hommes stupides_.”   
  
Laurens finds himself perched on the left of Lafayette’s cot, Hamilton on the right, and each of them having a hand clutched tightly by the Marquis.   
  
Were it anyone else but family, Laurens would find such comfort offered as this improper; Lafayette seems a different matter in many things, and he truly finds he does not mind.  
  
Lafayette grins rather madly, and Laurens thinks this less from his usual exuberant character, or from simply being French, and more so stems from the amount of alcohol likely remaining in his system from his being operated upon.   
  
“We do indeed still draw breath,” Hamilton assures. “Though Laurens’ ankle may feel less cheerful.”   
  
Laurens frowns, unwilling to have the topic land on his own insignificant injury. “I hardly think I should complain with Lafayette wounded so.”  
  
“ _Non_ , I do not think any injury on the field inconsequential, for it should show willingness to risk oneself for the cause.”   
  
Hamilton’s mouth contracts into a hard line, and his voice is sharply rebuking. “I find you both rather too willing to die swiftly in service to our cause, and I think you may not call us foolish when you refused to retire from the field so, Gilbert! You could very well have lost the leg, or your _life_ , Sir, and then where should any of your hopes for command be?”   
  
It seems strange to hear Lafayette addressed as _Gilbert_ , though Laurens has been given permission to use such also; he forgets that Hamilton and Lafayette have been known to one another longer than he has been known to them, as his friendship with each develops independent of the other thus far.  
  
“Pah.” Lafayette is woozily dismissive; his words appear more slurred by the minute. “I should not have lost my leg; I am not so careless as to misplace it so.”  
  
“ _Lafayette_.” Hamilton appears clearly frustrated; if he feels at all as Laurens does, then it should seem to stem equally from a mix of retreating fear and paralysing relief. “Do not joke so.”   
  
Lafayette grins again; Laurens realises his lip appears split, or bitten in surgery, perhaps. He wonders whether, like Meade, Lafayette must find cheer for all no matter the situation, despite evidence of such serious pain as he currently endures.   
  
“I joke not, truly, _mon cher_ ; I am greatly relieved. I only jest for I cannot contemplate such as losing a leg, _cette douleur est déjà assez forte_.”   
  
Laurens very lightly squeezes Lafayette’s hand. The Marquis turns his head towards him as he speaks.   
  
“Is it very bad, Sir?”  
  
Lafayette only blinks, smile shrinking for a moment. “Ah, _oui_ , but not so much now; rum should help greatly with pain as this.”   
  
Hamilton is shaking his head, frowning once more. He huffs. “You stubborn fool; do not dare cause Laurens and I to worry such on your welfare again.”   
  
Lafayette’s answering smile is gentle and soft, but the pain behind his eyes cannot quite be hidden any longer by rum and persistently summoned cheer. “I shall try, Hamilton, _mon cher_. But I hardly think you may call me stubborn, when I think perhaps I sit between two of the most stubborn men in all Washington’s army— _non_ , indeed, in all America, _oui?_ ”   
  
Hamilton snorts; Laurens huffs, irritated.   
  
“Neither of us rallied troops when we ought to have retired, musket ball in leg.” Though, Laurens supposes: “Such valour as this should certainly see the General petition Congress for your command post-haste?”   
  
Lafayette tilts his head. “Ah, but one can only hope, _non_?”   
  
His words definitely grow more slurred.  
  
“Still,” murmurs Laurens, carefully releasing Lafayette’s clammy hand, “It _were_ rather reckless, Sir.”   
  
“Reckless!” Lafayette snorts, then hisses between his teeth, as he must jar his leg with such movement. “Ah, _tu ne peux pas parler de tel_ , Laurens, for you are amongst the most reckless I have seen take the field. It were not your fault you were not wounded more seriously, nor killed, _mon cher_ , for all you tried what were necessary to procure one or the other.”   
  
Laurens frowns, clenches his hands together in his lap. “I should always fight as hard as I might if given leave to do so, as I were today.”   
  
Hamilton is still clutching Lafayette’s hand. “I should very much prefer you did not, and I should prefer you did not either, Lafayette.”   
  
“We all fought with honour!” Lafayette declares, needlessly loud; he be most certainly effected almost delirious by rum and blood loss. “And if Laurens should have fallen, it would have been with much valour.”   
  
Hamilton’s jaw tenses; his eyes flash dangerously. “I should not like to come upon Laurens dead in the mud, Lafayette, no matter the honour that should apparently accompany such an end.”   
  
Laurens blinks, senses a shimmering undercurrent swelling beneath this statement, and wishes desperately to decipher it.   
  
Lafayette speaks again before he can attempt such, fatigued from battle as he is.   
  
“ _Aie_ , Hamilton, _ma main_ ,” the Frenchman exclaims, stretching his fingers in Hamilton’s grasp.  
  
And indeed, Hamilton is squeezing Lafayette’s hand so violently that his knuckles appear white. He grimaces, releases it. “My apologies, _mon amie_.”  
  
Lafayette hums; he appears overly tired now, space between blinks growing longer and longer as he blearily regards Hamilton and Laurens in turn. “Hmm. I think you may not die on the field, Laurens, else Hamilton become unbearable in the aftermath.”   
  
At this statement, Hamilton stands abruptly. “You grow tired, Lafayette. We must leave you rest.”   
  
“Oh, _oui_ , I suppose that true,” Lafayette whispers. “I am very much injured, after all, _ne suis-je pas_?”  
  
“Indeed.” Laurens regards Lafayette fondly. “We should allow you your most deserved sleep so that you may begin to heal, and re-join us all the sooner.”   
  
In exhaustion and injury, Lafayette looks very much the part his youth should make him; he almost appears a boy, a younger brother of sorts, and Laurens nearly reaches out, smooths the hair from his forehead as he might have once done so with Jemmy, but halts in this impulse.   
  
“We shall go then, shall we not?” Laurens addresses this to Hamilton, but the man has already strode from the tent.   
  
Laurens sighs, pats Lafayette gently on the shoulder, the Frenchman near asleep already, and decides he ought to locate where his lodgings for what remains of the night may be.

***

Laurens eventually finds himself sitting on a cot in a rather lopsided tent that is apparently now his, feeling as though he is unlike to see his trunk again. His shirt is hard and crusted with dried blood, but he finds little motivation to strip, his limbs feeling leaden, weighed down, and he not likely to find replacements anyhow. His ankle aches worse, but he be too tired for the task of removing his boots.  
  
The soft flutter of pre-dawn filters in through the open canvas; almost appearing a clear reversal of his nature based reverie the previous evening.   
  
He realises his ears no longer ring.   
  
A dead soldier’s face rises behind his eyelids, bayonet through its throat. Its eyes fade to blackened pits, a shrivelled skull, blood painting bone, and it—  
  
He shivers. He were so close to becoming that himself and yet, despite what Lafayette or Hamilton might say, he regrets none of it; can still taste the appeal of ending in such a spectacular fashion, rather than fading slowly from life, skin wrinkled.  
  
Laurens is still sitting completely rigid, immovable, when a figure is reflected on the canvas, steps through, red-orange hair dampened by dirt and sweat, but still somehow glorious.  
  
“Laurens? Are you—? Ah, this be your tent after all. Tilghman said—but I thought it were.”   
  
Hamilton, amazingly in a fair mood again, despite the gloom pervading the camp, and his seeming ill-temper in Lafayette’s tent.  
  
Hamilton steps closer. “Laurens?”   
  
“Yes?” bites out Laurens. The exhaustion and fading adrenaline mix badly in his temper; he is not in the right frame of mind to be confronting Hamilton on anything, sinful feelings boiling too close to the surface.  
  
Hamilton frowns. “Are you well?”   
  
“Aye.”   
  
“Is it your ankle? Does it pain you?”   
  
“Hamilton, I am _well_.”   
  
A tense pause intrudes upon the air between the canvas walls.   
  
Hamilton closes the tent flap, figure now mostly hidden in the shadows.  
  
“It were your first action seen, Laurens. There be no shame in struggling to…comprehend such violence. Most men find themselves afterwards—ashamed of their fear, or—”   
  
“I am not shamed, Hamilton. I know I acquitted myself well.” And he does, for where the ability to kill in battle, sans remorse, means one has succeeded, he has.  
  
“Well.” Hamilton steps closer, eyes glinting in the dimness. “Indeed, if what Lafayette spoke of is truth, Sir, you acquitted yourself like a vengeful spirit upon the British.”   
  
“Ha.” Laurens is aware he sounds not one bit amused. “Perhaps my shame should be instead that I found such sinful action as slaughter easier suited to my temperament than most anything else I have encountered.”   
  
Another silence. Then, Hamilton speaks gently, as though one might to a spooked horse.   
  
“It be certainly an unfortunate truth that our liberty must be won by bloodshed. If this should prove your talent, then you are one of the great soldiers, akin to those of the classic tales, whose sacrifices our nation’s birth shall stand upon.”   
  
Laurens huffs. He disagrees, though Hamilton does reason beautifully. “If liberty be won by bloodshed, then I should prove a poor fit for when liberty prevails, for it seems my sinful talents should no longer be required.”   
  
And perhaps that is his lot in this life; that his soul is created from all the sinful pieces other men’s souls would disregard, pieces only fit for wartime, for short love and lust, for heartbreak, and so he finds his place now, but never before, and never after.   
  
When Hamilton responds to these dark thoughts Laurens realises, with horror, that in his tiredness, he has murmured all such aloud.   
  
“You would not fit only war, John, and I fail to see how your soul must be filled with only sinful pieces. War requires soldiers, and we come as called, but that be not the whole of your nature.”  
  
Laurens gazes up at Hamilton, whose face shifts slightly at whatever emotion he should manage to read on Laurens’ face. “Do you truly not understand, Alexander?”   
  
Hamilton takes another step closer, regards Laurens carefully. “I do not believe that you have spoken my Christian name thus before.”   
  
“No,” Laurens agrees softly. He has not, for to speak such feels far too intimate to him, when he knows what he has sinfully desired of Hamilton from the very start of their acquaintance.   
  
Hamilton takes one last step, sinks down onto the cot beside Laurens, so close their thighs touch, and Laurens freezes.   
  
“What do I not understand?” murmurs Hamilton, breath ghosting across Laurens’ ear. “What do I fail to understand of your apparently sinful nature?”   
  
He is too close, _he is too close_ —  
  
“If you do not understand it by now, after such games as we play, then I fear to speak of it,” Laurens finally whispers, heart picking up speed. If he is wrong in this, if Hamilton is merely the teasing, jesting flirt, one who enjoys flustering Laurens but means nothing by it, if none of it means anything, then here, from this, now, he could be shamed, he could be scorned, _he could be hung_.   
  
“I truly thought you dead, today,” Hamilton replies instead, shoulder leaning into Laurens’.   
  
Laurens is thrown, a moment. “I—you—what?”   
  
“When I searched for you, in retreat, and saw such blood as coated you, and your eyes slipping shut, I truly thought you dead, and the thought that you should die, before I—” Hamilton trails away, hands clenching where they rest on his knees.   
  
“Before you—?” Laurens breathes out, more air than words.  
  
Hamilton’s head tilts, _oh so very slightly_ , towards him, his loose and tangled hair brushing against Laurens’ neck. He suppresses a shiver.   
  
“I have a fact I would share, as per the game of exchange we played that day.”   
  
“Aye.” Laurens remembers it; remembers how they sat, shoulders touching, against the tree, remembers the spark of Hamilton’s fingers as he pulled him up from the ground.  
  
“I would share it, and I hope you will not condemn me for it.”   
  
Laurens turns his head to Hamilton a little. Even in the pre-dawn dark, his gaze grows noticeably darker still. “Hamilton?”   
  
Hamilton shifts to stare resolutely down, posture tense. “Laurens, I— _John_. The truth of it is, my soul be stained by sin also, for I—” He seems to inhale quickly, release the air slowly. “I am like to find pleasure with men just as well as with women.”   
  
Laurens breathes in once, sharp, heady. So it is— _Hamilton is—_ he too understands such unholy preferences as these.   
  
“Laurens?” Hamilton’s voice is small; his eyes flick upwards to meet Laurens’, completely honest, lacking any characteristic arrogance, _afraid_.   
  
“I—” Laurens chokes on words, begins again. “Alexander, you—”   
  
Hamilton goes to draw away. “I knew I should not—”  
  
“No!” Laurens moves on instinct; his hand shifts upwards to rest gently against Hamilton’s cheek.   
  
Hamilton freezes, mumbles haltingly, “John?”   
  
“The truth is, Alexander, I—” Laurens struggles; it be so difficult to reveal a part of oneself to others that has been chained, hidden and ignored, _reviled_ for so long. “I am like to…to…to find pleasure with a man also…such as you.”   
  
For a moment, there is no sound but their quickening breathing. Time stands cold and silent and watching, until it does not, and everything rushes in too scorching, too fast, too much—  
  
And there is something of the intoxicating adrenaline in the air, something of the heightened emotion, the manner in which every beat of Laurens’ heart reminds him he is still _alive, alive, alive_ , and—  
  
Laurens leans down, or Hamilton leans up, it matters not, in truth, except that their lips meet, and suddenly Hamilton’s mouth is moving against his, shaky and unsure, lips chapped and parched, and—  
  
 _Dear God, he is kissing Alexander Hamilton_.   
  
The moment feels so absurd he may laugh, giddy, and then he accidentally grazes Hamilton’s lip with his teeth, and Hamilton gasps a breathy moan, and Laurens’ head spins, heat and hidden desire pooling in his gut, and he opens his mouth a little, meeting tongue, and Hamilton’s hands are suddenly on his neck, tugging through his hair, and he whimpers, and Hamilton smirks against his lips, and—  
  
If he had truly intended anything of this, planned it for now, _dreamed it_ —and he is not certain he would have, still blood and sweat soaked from battle—it would have been a chaste kiss, a quick kiss, a kiss that said _ah, so you too feel this sin_.   
  
It is not.   
  
The second their lips meet Laurens feels as though he has caught aflame, that Hamilton should provide the only air he breathes, that Hamilton’s fingers in his hair should never leave, that he should never have to move his hand from the stubbled skin of Hamilton’s cheek, as though for the two of them to disconnect for a moment should mean ceasing to exist at all.  
  
It is all passion and all ruin; fire and gunpowder and ash and decay.   
  
It is bittersweet; for if Laurens has ever given in to such wants in his past, the other partaking should never wish to speak of it again, never wish to speak to him again—  
  
And so, Laurens prologues this kiss, these gentle passionate touches, this moment he has Hamilton, for he fears that when they part, he shall never have him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much research! So many Generals! I didn’t know much about the revolutionary army before this and wow, did not realise they had so many people commanding, damn. 
> 
> Also, I'm fully aware I'm probably not accurate on how a lot of the battle went down but, like, its for ~dramatic purposes~
> 
> Hope you enjoyed that chapter ending ;)
> 
> And honestly, thank you so much to everyone who comments and leaves kudos! It really does encourage me to keep going with this <3
> 
> Letter excerpt from: “III: To Colonel Theodorick Bland, 11 September 1777” https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/03-11-02-0190-0004
> 
> French translations:   
> -Ne t'inquiète pas: Do not worry   
> -Très prolongé, n'est-ce pas?: Very long, is it not?   
> \- Mes amis les plus chers: My dearest friends  
> -Vous les hommes stupides: You foolish men  
> -Cette douleur est déjà assez forte: This pain is bad enough  
> -Tu ne peux pas parler de tel: You cannot speak on such  
> -Aie: Ouch  
> -Ma main: My hand  
> -Ne suis-je pas?: Am I not?


	6. A False Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, hope you’re all doing okay :) It’s been raining all day where I live, which is so relaxing to write to.
> 
> Heads up, it's Laurens angst time; poor guy finds angst to be had in spades. Never fear, however, there is some fluff to try and offset the angst ;) 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_Warwick Furnace Farmhouse  
Knauertown, Warwick Township  
_ _September 18 th – 19th 1777_

Though it has been only a week since their terrible loss at Brandywine, and mere days since an abandoned engagement at White Tavern (which they were like to lose, anyhow), everything soaked and sodden by the downpour that came upon them there, things between Laurens and Hamilton appear much the same as before, to Laurens’ everlasting confusion.   
  
There has been no withdrawal on Hamilton’s part, as Laurens may have expected; if anything, Hamilton appears friendlier and more tactile than even previous.   
  
Whilst headquarters are, for the moment, at Warwick Furnace farmhouse, nothing feels permanent, with the British camped but three miles south of Valley Forge, and General Wayne at Paoli, between them, Philadelphia, and further supplies.   
  
Laurens does, however, receive his trunk, though it be rather battered and waterlogged. It seems the servants and slaves brought with them most of what was left at Benjamin Ring’s house when the Continentals retreated to Chester, and then further west, back to Warwick Township, near to where Laurens first joined this campaign.   
  
A clean shirt seems a miracle; his unfortunate cravat shall never again be a proper white, even after all the scrubbing it receives post Brandywine.  
  
Laurens finds his mind constantly worrying at such trivial problems, so that he may not dwell too long on the biggest: the British, and Hamilton.   
  
The British are not, unfortunate as it is, something that Laurens can himself solve; at present, it seems that even General Washington be hard pressed to solve _this_.   
  
Congress should likely move soon, correspondence that manages to reach him from his father informs him. To all involved, Philadelphia is as good as lost; General Wayne’s force, left to guard Philadelphia by Washington when storms compelled the dispersal of the two armies at White Tavern, remains a singular line of defence between the Capital and Howe. Military supplies are being moved from the capital to Reading, as are foodstuffs, blankets and the like.   
  
Laurens wonders whether any truly believe that Philadelphia shall not fall, with preparations such as these.  
  
Of the dilemma involving a certain Lieutenant Colonel—well. Laurens should not know how to solve that either.   
  
He wishes fervently that Lafayette were not injured, and spirited away to convalesce; should wish to have at least one man he trusts to confide in of his frustration—though not on what topic his frustration stems from specifically, of course.  
  
The aforementioned problematic Lieutenant Colonel is, at the current moment, sorting the dispatches he has received this morn, his knees bumping Laurens’ under the small desk they share.   
  
It is a blessing they do not share quarters at present (Laurens is paired with Fitzgerald), for the terrible uncertainty and awkwardness should be made even more difficult by such as that. It be also a blessing that the last week has involved vast amounts of movement, relocation and retreat; mountains of frenzied correspondence to write. It has allowed very little time for any private interactions, even for that of the simple friendship they ostensibly share.  
  
For Laurens has come to the horrible conclusion that Hamilton must desire _more_. Other men retreat at this juncture, but Hamilton only seems to encourage—should he desire more of his lust be satisfied by Laurens?   
  
This is unimaginable, as Laurens cannot—his sinful disposition be not only wired towards desiring the wrong sex, he knows, but in caring for them as one ought for a women, and Hamilton more than any previous he has encountered, if he is honest with himself.   
  
To share further intimacy, when it is likely but a game of forbidden lust to Hamilton—no. He _cannot_ condone such.   
  
And so, he is rather ashamed to admit that he attempts to avoid Hamilton where possible over the week prior—it seems better than confronting such and losing him altogether.  
  
At present, Hamilton writes in the singularly unique manner only he can achieve, quill scratching paper, so fast Laurens finds himself surprised it does not tear it and—Hamilton pauses, appears to think on a sentence, bites the end of his quill.   
  
Laurens’ self-restraint, stretched to its limit for an entire week, cannot take this further insult to its impatient temperament.   
  
“Do not—” he snaps out, then regrets fervently, as it likely be the first word he has shared with Hamilton outside of shallow pleasantries and mutual dispatches since Brandywine.  
  
Hamilton’s head jerks upwards, back straightening rigidly. His eyes narrow, knees no longer brushing Laurens’.   
  
“Do not, what, Sir?” Hamilton queries, distinctive rapid anger bleeding into his tone.  
  
Laurens gestures sharply at the quill. “Bite that.”   
  
“Thank God!” That is Meade. His cry makes the other aides’ heads shoot up; Reed fortuitously absent.   
  
Harrison _almost_ looks irritated. “Meade. Must you?”   
  
“I must!” Meade grins slyly. “I thought Laurens’ tongue injured at Brandywine, rather than his ankle. I rejoice in this not being the case, as I sorely miss its wit.”   
  
Laurens blinks, frowns. “I am not sure what you mean, Sir.”   
  
Tilghman joins the jest. “Meade speaks truth; I have heard you utter nothing but what is strictly necessary since the retreat.”   
  
Laurens finds this rather discourteous, and irritating. “I should think there is not much of cheer to discuss, at present.”   
  
“Maybe so,” Meade allows. “But still, I am glad you appear unbroken in spirit by Brandywine; I had worried.”  
  
Meade is unfortunately close to the mark, thought incorrect about the actual catalyst. If anything, this only makes Laurens crosser; he should not want to be so transparent in his moods.   
  
He forces a grin, suspects it may look more a grimace. “I apologise for my lack of conversational wit, then, gentlemen.”  
  
Harrison rolls his eyes. “Listen not to these reprobates, Laurens. No apology is necessary; if all should heed their work in this manner, we should get through more, quicker.”   
  
“That sounds near Reed-ish,” Hamilton murmurs. Laurens ignores it, refuses a chuckle.  
  
“I object to being labelled a reprobate!” Meade, again.  
  
“Then do not behave as such.” Fitzgerald speaks now, teasing. “And Laurens is correct anyhow; there is very little cheer to be had, with the British breathing down our necks so close.”  
  
Tilghman points his quill at Fitzgerald. “Say no such thing, Sir! There is always cheer to be had, made all the more important by the seeming lack of it.”   
  
“Indeed. I concur with Tilghman,” Meade agrees. “And it seems most fitting the first proper word spoken from Laurens should be to reprimand Hamilton, they close friends, and Hamilton oft requiring such.”   
  
Laurens presses his lips together, hard, forces his eyes back to his work. “I have need of returning to this translation.”  
  
There is a short silence. Laurens can feel Hamilton’s questioning—dare he say _hurt_ —gaze upon him, and he resents it.  
  
Harrison clears his throat. “Yes. Well. I say we all ought to resume such.”  
  
Meade’s eyes linger a moment longer on Laurens, probing and uncertain.   
  
Reed returns not long after that, and conversation ceases naturally in his more dour presence. Laurens finds, suddenly, that the French swims on his page, English and it melding together in bleeding lines of ink, and his ankle, which has bothered him little since two days prior, suddenly aches once more.   
  
He cannot sit so close to Hamilton any longer, cannot take the pressing feel of the humid air between the farmhouse walls in this office they create.   
  
Laurens stands abruptly, several blank, loose papers fluttering to the floor. He ignores them and strides purposefully from the room, trying his hardest to avoid a limp.   
  
As he makes this abrupt exit, he hears Meade inquire:   
  
“What did you do, Hammie?”   
  
“Me?” Hamilton sounds indignant. “Why do you assume I am involved with his ill-temper?”   
  
“You usually are, in this office, involved with some ill-temper or another,” Tilghman can be heard underlining.  
  
“Indeed,” Reed agrees sourly; though how his ill moods can be blamed solely on Hamilton is a mystery all have yet to solve.  
  
By then, Laurens is too high up the stair case to hear any more that is spoken; he near shakes with rage and upset, and is shamed by such a reaction as this.   
  
How should he undertake his duties if he cannot even sit at a desk with Hamilton at length without allowing himself provoked? Perhaps staying on Washington’s staff after the events in the tent post Brandywine were a ridiculous notion.   
  
He should have known he would ruin any prospects for himself here as he did in Europe with the same behaviour and regrets—though here, at least, there is no woman and wife for him to impregnate and leave. No, indeed—but there are many other shames.  
  
He enters the small room—if it can be even called more than a closet—where he shares a bed with Fitzgerald, and makes to slam the door, but catches it at the last second. He must not revert to childishness simply because he is angry at his own lack of control; slamming a door would only prove the truth of this lack in any case.   
  
In the quiet of the room, Laurens forces himself to breathe deep and slow, returning to his list of native plants, as he is wont to do when he wishes his mind rest on nothing else.  
  
After a while of this, he feels his shoulders slump, tension draining away slightly from his hands, which he unclenches and then shakes, sharp pain in his palms from fingernails pressed too tight.   
  
Mayhap he ought to beg leave of Washington’s staff; return to England and his wife and child?   
  
Yet doing so should prove his father right, and he would seek to prove his father wrong, and also prove to his father he be worthy of being both a Laurens, and of being solely _John_ without relying upon the family name.  
  
And so, he will not leave, but he should attempt to avoid Hamilton where possible.  
  
This would, of course, be made easier if Hamilton followed the same rules.   
  
Lost in such a moment of determined introspection, Laurens does not hear the door creak quietly open; with his back to it and his eyes closed he hears nothing until the latch clicks shut once more.   
  
He spins round with alarm, and as would be his usual ill fortune, it is Hamilton who has snuck in.  
  
The room is too small; Hamilton stands too close, his feelings seeming too poorly confined in his frame, as though emotions might leak out his skin, flare from his deep blue eyes.   
  
Hamilton’s expression appears fairly concerned. “Laurens? Does your ankle trouble you still?”   
  
His damn ankle; he should have wished it shot clean off if it causes such trouble as this.   
  
“No,” he says shortly. “Very little.”   
  
Hamilton takes a step forward, Laurens a step back, but his calves hit the low bed frame as there be no more space, and he stumbles, wincing as his injured ankle takes the weight.   
  
Hamilton frowns, crossing his arms. “Very little, indeed, I see.” His tone is overly sarcastic, and Laurens appreciates it not.   
  
“I say very little, and it be my ankle.”   
  
“No, Sir, _est-ce vrai_? I thought it Meade’s ankle, yet attached to you.”   
  
Laurens glares, and goes to stride past Hamilton, and out of the room, but Hamilton steps to block him defiantly so he cannot reach the door handle.   
  
“Hamilton,” he grinds out, through gritted teeth. “Sir, we have much work to be about.”   
  
Hamilton’s countenance changes completely; where it seconds ago consisted wholly of concern, it now contains blazing fire and rage. He glares in a ferocious manner at Laurens, who takes a wary step back again, suddenly unsure of his footing in this new dance.   
  
“Hamilton?” he asks quietly, uncertain. “What is this?”   
  
Hamilton’s eyes narrow. “Laurens.” The tone is hard and cold; a question, but not phrased as such.  
  
Laurens shivers. “Yes, Sir?”   
  
Hamilton’s expression pinches. “I cannot comprehend your being so short with me. What have I done to wrong you so? I thought—What is this about, John?”   
  
Laurens glances over Hamilton’s shoulder, eyes glued to the door. He schools his expression to neutral, tone light. “What is _what_ about, Hamilton?”   
  
“John.” Hamilton’s eyes spit flame. “Do not pretend ignorance, it does you no credit.”  
  
Laurens moves not a muscle. “I pretend no ignorance.”   
  
“ _Laurens_.”   
  
“Aye?”   
  
“You—!” Hamilton throws his hands in the air. “I should wish to beat you in that pretty nose!”   
  
Laurens feels his eyes widen, leans a little further back, out of range of possible flying fists. “Hamilton—”   
  
“No, Sir!” Hamilton raises a finger, and huffs, immense frustration clear on his face. “I had thought—I thought we had come to an understanding when we—in the tent—I thought—” he trails away, countenance screaming _defeat_.   
  
Ah.   
  
So, it be about that after all.   
  
Laurens’ jaw tightens, he stands rigid.   
  
“You thought _what_ , Hamilton?” The chilly tone in his voice sounds unknown, unlike his person, even to him.  
  
Hamilton seems to shrink before him, appears hurt, unsure, and Laurens should wish to comfort him, but cannot, else this hurt all the worse.  
  
“I merely thought—”   
  
“That you desired me, Hamilton, is that it?” Laurens hisses quietly, aware of what should occur if any others are to overhear such a conversation as this.   
  
Hamilton frowns, appears deeply troubled. “Aye, of course, for I find you _très beau_ , though I fail to see that any should _not_ desire you, for you are quite spectacular—”   
  
“Alexander.” Laurens finds he cannot hide the pain in his voice; Hamilton’s careful use of his own _très beau_ making this all the more hurtful.   
  
Hamilton, however, reaches out and clutches Laurens’ right hand. The skin is warm; he can feel where Hamilton possesses calluses from holding a quill. He makes no move to reciprocate with his own fingers, leaves his hand lying limp in Hamilton’s grasp.   
  
Hamilton is peering into Laurens’ eyes intently, as though hoping with sheer force of will to impart all his words on this matter from his mind to Laurens’.  
  
“Laurens, I thought you understood that yes, I desire you, certainly that, but also—”   
  
“Also?” This query is so soft that Laurens cannot be sure it even leaves his lips.  
  
Hamilton puffs out air; Laurens feels it ghost past his face, smelling of coffee, and something sweeter.   
  
“I—” Hamilton’s grasp is crushing Laurens’ fingers, but he stays still. “I—dear God, Laurens, I do not know how, and I do not know why, cannot _understand_ it, but I—I care for you.”

This confession rushes out of Hamilton, as though he should wish to have it said as quick as possible.   
  
“I—I find that I care for you a great deal more than any man is meant to care for another man. I have grown to care for you quicker than any else in my life, and it terrifies me to admit so, but I should not like you to think I would merely— _use_ you, in a manner to satisfy some lust, and not care for you, deeply.” Hamilton squeezes his eyes shut, shoulders raised as though to take a blow. “Deeply, Laurens, and in so short a time. I cannot claim to understand how this can be, but it is true, nonetheless. I know my feelings.”   
  
Laurens stares in wonder. Blinks. Feels heat rush to his face. This cannot be—this isn’t—  
  
His heart crumples.   
  
“Hamilton, you must be mistaken. That is how you ought to feel for a woman, not I.” Laurens cannot let Hamilton think this way; he must ensure a man that wishes to be so well renowned after the war be protected from such sins as _caring for another man_.   
  
Hamilton shakes his head stubbornly. “Do not tell me how I ought to feel, Laurens.” His tone is sharp. “I know what such feelings as these be deemed by law; and I know well the pleasure a woman brings. But I cannot deny I feel them, Sir, for that would be the worst kind of falsehood.”   
  
Laurens cannot—he knows not how to handle this. That Hamilton’s feelings should match his…he would wish to surrender to his own, and that be far too dangerous for either of them.   
  
“You _must_ be mistaken—” Laurens tries, but Hamilton interrupts harshly.   
  
“Stop, Laurens. You will not convince me otherwise on this; you know my character as stubborn as any. If you do not feel the same, if you should wish to continue onwards in friendship only, then I shall never raise such again. Do not tell me, however, that you do not at least feel the same desire—I saw it both that night we were drinking, and in the aftermath of Brandywine. But I shall understand if you wish never to act on such—the dangers are not lost on me.”   
  
Ah, _damnation_ , but how such confessions pain Laurens’ very soul, the twisting elements that create the man he is. He should not wish to act on this, should not wish to continue anything of this, should not want so hard for something deemed so impossible, but Hamilton—Hamilton— _Hamilton_.   
  
_Alexander fucking Hamilton_.  
  
Mercurial moods, and fiery hair; soft flushed cheeks and soul swallowing eyes; dry, gentle lips and breathy forbidden moans—  
  
He is lost, and he knew himself lost far before now.   
  
Laurens curls his own fingers round Hamilton’s gently.   
  
Hamilton stills, wide-eyed hope blossoming on his face.   
  
“Laurens?” he murmurs. “John?”   
  
Laurens gasps, squeezes Hamilton’s fingers lightly between his own. “Hamilton, I thought—I thought—with any I have experienced such— _desire_ —previously, they should wish to have their need satisfied by a man but once, and then never again, never speak of me, or to me, of the matter again.”  
  
Hamilton’s face crumples. “Oh, John,” he whispers, sadly. His free hand rises to touch Laurens’ jaw, thumb stroking his cheek.   
  
Laurens leans into the touch, almost without thought, murmurs truthfully: “I had not imagined it possible that you could truly join me in this sin—that you could care for me—as I have grown to care for you, Alexander.”   
  
And it is done, the words are out, the heavy truth; a dangerous thing to allow truth spoken as this, released freely into a world such as theirs.  
  
Hamilton’s other hand wriggles free of Laurens’, gently rises to join the first, palm against Laurens’ neck, fingers running softly over the nape, causing tingles to rush up and down Laurens’ spine, his throat to lack any moisture.   
  
This is not—he should not—he ought not let this be begun, truly.  
  
“When I thought you dead, at Brandywine—” Hamilton’s voice shakes, fades off.   
  
“But I were not,” Laurens assures, quietly. “I am here.”   
  
“Yes,” murmurs Hamilton, fingers catching tenderly in Laurens’ hair, tugging lightly. “You are here.”  
  
“Yes,” breathes Laurens, unsure what else he might say, as Hamilton’s eyes flick downwards to gaze at his lips.  
  
Heat rushes into Laurens’ gut, and now, there be too much space between them, when he should only want—  
  
Hamilton swoops forward suddenly, lips catching Laurens’, and Laurens’ hands fly to Hamilton’s neck and shoulder for balance.  
  
He is consumed.  
  
The kiss begins gentle, soft, Hamilton nipping at his lip teasingly, smiling into it, but then, as at Brandywine, Laurens opens his mouth slightly, and Hamilton takes this as invitation to enter with tongue.   
  
It turns passionate, desperate, frenzied; teeth clashing, noses bumping, unknowing whose breaths may belong to whom. Laurens feels Hamilton’s hand tug his hair more insistently, the other moving down Laurens’ neck to tease his cravat, and the feel of Hamilton’s fingers on his pulse causes Laurens to moan; he bites it off quick in embarrassment, but it only seems to encourage Hamilton further.   
  
As such, Hamilton disconnects from their kiss and starts moving his lips down Laurens’ jaw, Laurens slides a hand into Hamilton’s fiery hair— _finally_ —and tangles it over his fingers, Hamilton emitting a sharp gasp at this movement, then nipping under Lauren’s jaw where skin meets cotton.   
  
“Hamilton,” he gasps, alarmed. “Not—not where any may see.”   
  
Hamilton glances up slightly, meeting his eyes with blown out pupils and a smug expression.   
  
“Where others cannot see, then?”   
  
Laurens’ breath hitches; he feels the effect Hamilton’s words have most keenly.   
  
“Aye, but not—not here, not now, we must—”  
  
Hamilton cuts him off again by reconnecting their mouths, and it is as though stars are exploding behind Laurens’ eyes, and a flame is curling in his belly, and he does not even realise he is moving until Hamilton has backed him up against the wall, the smaller man making sure to steer them out of the way of the bed frame, and then his entire weight is against Laurens, and his leg slides between Laurens’ thighs.   
  
Laurens gasps into the kiss, then surges forward himself, both hands in Hamilton’s hair insistently, and Hamilton is making this _sound_ low in his throat, and Laurens should like to know that he can produce such a sound from one as effusive as Hamilton, but—  
  
“Hamilton, do not—do not begin things we have not the time nor privacy to end,” he manages to choke out, breaking away, though Hamilton chases his mouth persistently to attempt a recapture, only presses his leg rougher between Laurens’, and Laurens bites his tongue near hard enough to draw blood in order to mask any incriminating sounds he might make at such pressure.   
  
“ _Alexander_ ,” he hisses.   
  
At this, Hamilton finally draws back, seeming unbearably self-satisfied, but his darkened eyes and swollen lips betray him just as unavoidably affected by Laurens as he by Hamilton.  
  
“Ah. Damn.” Hamilton grins slyly, his gaze scanning Laurens with an expression that indicates he enjoys partaking in this observation greatly.   
  
Laurens flushes; Hamilton chuckles.   
  
“You may not believe me, Laurens, but I do not know that there has been a soul who can affect me so much with a simple look as you; quite the torment when I were so ardently resolved to hate you, _tu comprends_?”  
  
Laurens allows his own sly grin. “I may, for I was in quite the same predicament upon our first meeting.”  
  
“Ha.” Hamilton’s eyes turn fond, then grow hooded, as he once more scans Laurens, suggestively. “I think I should quite enjoy watching how you should look when properly debauched, and I may begin things with the intent to see them through.”   
  
Laurens’ eyes widen; he splutters slightly. “Hamilton!”   
  
Hamilton’s smile this time is wide and teasing. “I only speak truth.”   
  
“But such truth, Sir!”   
  
Hamilton laughs; a full and beautiful sound Laurens has heard so rarely.   
  
Laurens reaches out and takes a strand of Hamilton’s fiery hair in his fingers. “Your queue is quite ruined.”   
  
Hamilton waves a hand, bring it up so his fingers encircle Laurens’ wrist. “I should not mind a ruined queue, for this. And yours be in no better shape.”   
  
Laurens huffs. “And whose fault should that be?”   
  
Hamilton adopts an innocent look. “Why yours, Sir, for appearing so irresistible.”   
  
Laurens knows he flushes an even brighter red. “ _Hamilton_.”   
  
Said infuriating, beautiful man chuckles delightedly. “But you are so fun, so easy to tease, Laurens.”  
  
Laurens glares playfully. “And you take advantage of such a fault too often.”   
  
“I see it not a fault.” Hamilton steps closer again, intent clear on his face.   
  
“Hamilton, no, we are likely needed downstairs—and we should look a mess already.”   
  
“You misread my intentions,” Hamilton insists. “I mean only to—” he breaks off, leans upwards swiftly, and presses a truly gentle kiss to Laurens’ mouth, pulls away slowly. “I mean only to demonstrate that I do not think this a onetime satisfied lust. Do you understand me, now, John Laurens?”   
  
Laurens stares. Oh, he understands. He understands that they risk their position, their honour, their very _lives_ with such an undertaking, and he understands that now he has known such, he will not be able to surrender it easily, even for such important things as positions, and honour, and lives.   
  
The dance they dance is no longer one where each does not understand the steps; it be a dance they perform in tandem with one another, where the other dancers are heart and fate and soul and life, and to falter in the steps will mean losing one or the other, or all four at once.   
  
And still, though he knows these things, understands them well, he knows he will not say no in this moment, knows he cannot so easily refuse Alexander Hamilton.   
  
“I understand you, Alexander,” Laurens murmurs, both his hands resting gentle against Hamilton’s jaw. “I understand you perfectly.”   
  
And he does, he does, he _does_ , and that is why he really ought not to continue with such, but—  
  
As one, they both lean in again, except—  
  
“Hamilton? Laurens? Is your argument quite resolved?” and a rude, loud knock upon the door.   
  
Meade! And the door not locked! And they in such a state!  
  
Laurens is like to panic, but Hamilton shoots him a sharp look.   
  
“Indeed, we are friends again,” he jests loudly, winking at Laurens, who cannot resist a grin, even in such circumstances.   
  
“Aye, well, excellent,” Meade calls through the door. “I am made a messenger boy to you, Hamilton, and this humiliation compounded by my yelling through a door, but—the General has summoned you.”   
  
Hamilton freezes, blinks, sets to a frenzied attempt at fixing his queue, his rumpled clothes; lips still a little too swollen, but hopefully not so as to be noticed. “His Excellency summons me? On what?”  
  
There is a huff, and the door handle turns.   
  
Laurens near leaps in the air, trips on his sore ankle, falls rather inelegantly onto the bed as Meade’s head pops through the now opened door.   
  
At least there now a legitimate reason for his ruined hair.  
  
Meade laughs at Laurens’ predicament. “That you cannot even stay upright should demonstrate you truly still injured, Laurens.”   
  
Hamilton shoves himself in front of Meade. “Meade? Why am I summoned?”   
  
Meade shrugs lightly. “I know not, but I know you should go to it.”   
  
“Yes,” mutters Hamilton, clearly completely distracted by such now, “Aye.”   
  
He strides from the room with nary a backwards glance, and Laurens should feel himself stuck in a strange dream; where he is one moment with Hamilton, engaging in such forbidden things, and the next there be a war insistent on being fought, and Hamilton a man dearly needed and treasured by those that may win it.

***

Hamilton is sent to a storehouse on the Schuylkill River, near to Valley Forge.   
  
A Continental Army magazine and military stock of grain and munitions were built there prior to the British campaign here. Stored with four thousand barrels of wheat and flour, and irons such as axes, horse shoes and the like, Washington is loath to allow the British to take it, as they are likely to if they think it abandoned.   
  
Hamilton, along with a Captain Harry ‘Light-horse’ Lee, and six to eight men between them, are to gather the supplies and transport them west, back to the main body. Failing this, they are to burn it all.  
  
Laurens understands why such should be necessary, and also understands it a mission of little risk, provided one stays out of sight of the British.   
  
That does not mean he should like it. Seeing Hamilton ride off so close after all they have disclosed to one another is disquieting, and Laurens feels an awful kernel of worry churning in his stomach, but can say nothing, and may bid farewell and good luck only as the rest of the aides do.  
  
With it a near thirty-five mile round trip, and provisions to carry, Hamilton and Lee are not expected back until early on the nineteenth at best, and so there is little for Laurens to do but distract himself by working through as much correspondence as he can.  
  
Unfortunately, his inability to entirely hide his moods shall still be his downfall, with the other aides appearing to realise somewhat the depth of his strange unease, as the day slides into nightfall.   
  
Meade is, of course, the first to speak on the subject, he having just returned with dinner rations, and so given the excuse to stand right in front of Laurens’ desk for a moment.   
  
Laurens does not even realise this until Meade plants a plate over the current dispatch he copies.   
  
“Meade!” he cries with dismay; the ink is likely smudged.   
  
Meade shrugs playfully. “It should need re-writing anyhow, it appeared quite rushed.”   
  
Laurens’ mouth drops open. “Sir! Such insult.”   
  
Meade hums. “Eat, Laurens, then return. You work much too hard at present—almost as hard as _le petit lion_ and we all know him near inhuman.”  
  
Laurens finds himself unable to pretend himself nonchalant at mention of Hamilton, and Meade, by all that is Holy, notices.   
  
Fortuitously, he incorrectly assumes the reason.   
  
As such, he frowns. “Does your ankle truly trouble you no more?”   
  
_His bloody ankle_.   
  
Laurens sighs. “Aye, Meade. Truly, my ankle is fine. All that remains is the tiniest of bruises.”   
  
Across the room, Tilghman appears to take this as his cue to also engage. “Why then do you appear so glum? I thought yours and Hamilton’s argument resolved?”   
  
_Good Lord_. Resolved be one way to understand it, though the law, and likely these men, should think otherwise.   
  
Laurens coughs. “Yes, Sir, perfectly resolved.”   
  
Tilghman’s eyes narrow. “On what subject was this argument, anyhow? Hamilton seemed quite perplexed as to its origin.”   
  
“It were naught,” says Laurens. “It were nothing—nothing important, truly, I assure you.”   
  
Meade raps a fist on Laurens’ desk. “And now you worry, is that it?”  
  
Laurens does a double take. “I—pardon?”   
  
Meade is watching him closely. “You worry on Hamilton’s mission.”   
  
Fitzgerald now joins in, laying his quill down, almost upsetting the tea cup containing his watered down coffee. “On Hamilton’s mission? Or on you not being chosen for Hamilton’s mission?”   
  
“Fitzgerald!” Harrison interjects. “You toe the line of impertinence, Sir, rather than that of simple curiousity.”   
  
Fitzgerald only laughs. “I meant it as no slight—Laurens is one for a fight, as we all well know.”  
  
Laurens could take offence, but in actuality, this provides an easy excuse. “I should have liked to undertake it, though I concede my ankle is perhaps not quite up to such a ride, as yet.”   
  
Meade, however, appears unconvinced. “We should all worry for Hamilton, he being as he is, but he shall be fine. Washington would not risk him without cause.”   
  
“The General barely stands to risk him at all.” Fitzgerald again.   
  
Finally, Reed seems to decide he cannot ignore the conversation any longer. “If perhaps we could cease on worrying at the personal details of Laurens’ and Hamilton’s friendship? It seems rather irrelevant to copying tomorrow’s General Orders, does it not?”   
  
Meade huffs. “Well, if I should write of it in tomorrow’s orders, it should not seem so.”  
  
Tilghman barks a laugh. “Yes—'The argument of Laurens and Hamilton is resolved; all shall be made aware of such by order of His Excellency’.”   
  
Laurens rolls his eyes. “Sirs—” he nods at Reed. “I find myself in agreement with Reed.”   
  
“Such a day!” exclaims Meade. “Of historical note!”   
  
“ _Meade_.” Harrison, of course. “ _Tilghman_. I thank the Lord every day that I have two lovely daughters at home, and not you as sons.”   
  
“Ha,” Meade exclaims. “I should be a brother, not a son, for you are what, a year my elder?”   
  
“And I a year _your_ elder, Harrison!” proclaims Tilghman, adopting a wounded look.   
  
“One would not know it, based only upon your temperaments,” Laurens expounds.  
  
“Insult upon insult!” Meade cries. “And I such a valuable friend to all in this office.”  
  
“Sirs, if you would but _cease your shouting_ ,” Reed growls. “I find myself distracted near beyond comprehension at your pointless chattering.”   
  
Meade and Tilghman both laugh so loudly at this that it drowns out Reed’s next statement about their behaviour. Harrison merely shakes his head and sets to refilling his inkpot, and Fitzgerald resolves to call Meade and Tilghman collectively _sons of the eminent Sir, R. H. Harrison_ for the rest of the evening, much to their chagrin when a thoroughly confused General Washington calls upon them to ask of any relevant correspondence.   
  
Such tomfoolery as this has Laurens laughing as well, particularly when Fitzgerald is left red-faced trying to explain these actions to the General—who luckily takes all in good humour—and it is not until far later that he realises Meade’s goal was likely that: to distract and amuse.   
  
He finds himself with an even greater appreciation of Meade’s character; though he too should likely feel the stress and worry of such a campaign, he appears to make sure all are kept in good spirits without their even noticing his efforts.   
  


Eventually, it is nearing almost two in the morn, but with so much correspondence, and the most efficient of their aides absent on mission, none of them have yet retired.   
  
Laurens has just volunteered to collect what rum or wine he can locate to tide them over a while longer, when he hears a commotion towards the front of the farmhouse, and loud calls for the General echoing down the hall, as Washington’s office be not two doors down from the aides’.  
  
Apprehension building at what could produce such an outcry, Laurens abandons the drinks and hastens towards the front rooms, ankle stiff but ignored.   
  
He slows as he reaches the office, suddenly too wary to enter, heartbeat starting to speed up rapidly, finding his hands shake. He listens from beside the door, hears quiet distressed murmurs, and then, quite clearly:   
  
“Someone ought to tell Laurens.” That is Harrison, and tell him _what_?   
  
“Aye.” Meade. His voice shakes unusually, and his tone is frighteningly flat. “As he and Hamilton were more particular friends than most.”   
  
_Were_?   
  
Laurens feels an awful weight drop into his stomach; his breathing begins to speed up. He must—he forces himself to step into the room.   
  
“Tell me what?” he asks, softly, proud to find his voice still works.  
  
All the aides turn to face Laurens as he enters, and he finds the sorrowful eyes of the General upon him.   
  
Meade’s expression appears worryingly empty, eyes wide and distressed. “Laurens—” he tries, extending a hand outwards as though to place it upon Laurens’ shoulder, but then he drops it, as his hand appears to shake, helpless.  
  
“Meade, you—” Laurens glances at each aide in turn, finds himself desperate to know, desperate to never know. “You—you are alarming me greatly. What has occurred?”   
  
General Washington steps forward. “Laurens, I am sorry.”  
  
“Sorry?” echoes Laurens, though it sounds not even his voice. “Sorry for what, Sir?”   
  
The General’s face crumples. “Hamilton is dead.”   
  
Hamilton is—  
  
 _What?  
_  
“No, no, that cannot—” Laurens peers desperately at each man, wills one of them to say it is not so, _say it is not so_ — “What do you mean, Hamilton is dead? That is not—”   
  
Washington’s voice near shakes as he clutches a missive. “The British located our force, and Captain Lee writes in this dispatch that they were upon them swift—Hamilton tried for a raft, but went into the river.”   
  
“So he—he fell in the river? He can swim, can he not?”   
  
Washington shakes his head. “None saw him emerge.”   
  
Laurens feels everything collapse inside of him; he forgets how to breathe, and he should not be surprised if his heart forgets how to beat. “No, but that—Lee must be mistaken.”   
  
“He is dead, Laurens.” Washington turns away, shaking hand pressed to his forehead. “He is dead.”  
  
_Dead_.   
  
_Dead.  
  
Hamilton is—  
  
_Dead.   
  
No, no, that is not—  
  
That cannot—  
  
He cannot be—  
  
 _Dead.  
  
_ Laurens vaguely hears talk of how if the British are so close, they must make efforts to move yet again, to cross the Schuylkill, make for Lower Providence, but he takes none of this in, for Hamilton is—Hamilton is—dead.   
  
_No_.   
  
It cannot be, it truly cannot be, for did he not kiss Laurens only this morning? Confess to Laurens how he grows to care for him, though they be both men, and this a crime? Whisper compliments and teases to Laurens, wind his fingers through his hair, bite at his jaw?   
  
Oh, but how Laurens wishes he had let Hamilton bruise him where others may see, let him make such a mark, let him be so bold, thus that he could point, and scream, demand of others: _see, he said these things, he did these things, I did not imagine such, it occurred, I know it, and it be visible memory_ —  
  
For now, if Hamilton is truly dead, these things mean nothing, cannot be seen, cannot be felt, except as a pain that rips through Laurens’ soul, tears into his chest, wrenches his heart out his ribs and holds it aloft, bloody, as a prize Hamilton has taken and then destroyed.   
  
For has he not just given Hamilton his heart? Such a precious gift, and one he barely realised he were offering, until it too late, until—  
  
“Laurens?” he hears, as though through water. “Laurens, are you—? Laurens?”   
  
Meade is beside him, peering into his eyes, but Laurens cannot move, cannot respond, feels as though he barely inhabits his limbs, let alone can command them to move.   
  
Tilghman is beside Meade, now. “Meade? Laurens, what is—?”   
  
“I think him in shock,” Meade murmurs. “I think—”   
  
Abruptly, Laurens’ mouth moves, though it feels as though anyone but he controls it. “I am well, gentlemen, I am fine, I—”   
  
His limbs are his again, his breath saws in and out rapidly, candlelight and men blend together in unearthly forms. “I must—I need—”   
  
Laurens stumbles from the room, stumbles from the distressed queries of the other aides, stumbles for the front door, wrenches it open, disappears into the all-encompassing dark.   
  
The lights from the farmhouse fade behind him so that when he glances up, he can see only the stars shining coldly in the heavens above.   
  
He stares, caught, a moment longer, then gasps, finds his legs collapse as though he is cut from a string God wields, and then he is on the ground, curled up, arms around his knees, chin to chest.   
  
He shakes uncontrollably, notices his cheeks are wet.   
  
A loud sob escapes and he realises he cries; he cries in a manner he has not since his brother’s death, and never before or since, sobs so violent that he cannot breathe, should not want to breathe, for if Hamilton is dead, what use is there in it?   
  
Is this his punishment for sinning so? To find one to gift his heart to and then have such a man stolen so soon after?   
  
It seems unjust, cruel.   
  
He should never give his heart again, should never care again in this fashion, should never love—  
  
Oh.   
  
_No_.   
  
No, no, he cannot—  
  
He cannot have _loved_ Hamilton. He has known him but a month and a bit! Confessed such care only this morn!   
  
But—  
  
In death, he can admit this truth, perhaps. If it is not yet love, then certainly it seems possible it could have grown into such with time.   
  
_And why should God give such love as this, and then such despair?  
  
_ He thinks on Hamilton’s shaking voice _I thought you dead_ , and oh, does Laurens understand such anguish, now.   
  
_But it is you who has left me, Alexander_.   
  
“Please,” he whispers to the uncaring sky. “Please, let this be not true. And if it is, please take me in glory next time battle should meet, so that I might join him.”   
  
Night slides towards dawn, and Laurens cares not, for if Hamilton is dead, why should he?

***

Eventually, Laurens realises he shakes not from sobs, but from the cold, and is should seem a waste to die of pneumonia, perhaps, though no death seems truly a waste if it should reunite him with Hamilton.   
  
He trudges tiredly back to the house, soft first light illuminating the way, though it feels like an end, rather than a beginning as new mornings ought.  
  
As he automatically finds his feet carrying him forward to the farmhouse, Meade appears on the front step.   
  
He spots Laurens, and his eyes widen.   
  
“Laurens! Damn you, and thank God!” Meade hurries towards him. “When none could find you in the dark, we were worried—well. It matters not, now.”   
  
Laurens does not feel compelled to ask on what they worried; if it was for his ill-health, his death, they were not especially far from the mark, after all.   
  
“I apologise,” Laurens manages, though his voice tears painfully at his abused throat. “I needed—” he trails away.   
  
Meade regards him with an odd mix of pity and sympathy. “Aye, well. I shall make you a coffee; there were a nasty chill in the air.”   
  
Laurens only nods; follows Meade inside.   
  
In the aides-de-camp office, all toil dutifully, though the marks of grief and upset seem to sit heavy on faces, and cheer is decidedly absent.   
  
All glance up when Laurens enters, but none seem sure what to say, so Laurens avoids their gazes, sits heavily in his chair.   
  
Meade brings a coffee as promised; Laurens drinks, but it tastes of nothing but tears and ashes.   
  
He translates French dutifully— _si notre roi est d'accord_ —but gives hardly any care to its neatness.   
  
He finds his body sore, his fingers stiff, forces his mind not to think— _I care for you, John_.  
  
And then—  
  
“Where is His Excellency?” A voice yells desperately; a voice Laurens knows well.   
  
Now, he hears voices that do not exist? Is there to be no end to his torment?   
  
Meade’s head shoots up. Does he too hear ghosts?   
  
“Hamilton?” Meade shouts, voice cracking at the volume. “Hamilton!”   
  
A bedraggled head pops round the office door; red locks tangled, clothes still damp and rumpled, a single bloody gash down one cheek.   
  
“Dear God, man!” Tilghman shoots upwards; inkpot smashing to the floor. Even Reed pays the mess no heed. “You were reported dead!”  
  
Hamilton—for if others can see him, surely he is not a ghost?—steps fully into the room. “I— _what_?”   
  
Fitzgerald whoops with joy. “Lee! He sent a dispatch that you were lost to the river, drowned in the British attack!”   
  
Hamilton’s eyes widen, he appears mightily taken aback. “I were reported _dead_?”   
  
“Yes, Sir.” Harrison’s voice is incredibly soft; a contrast to the exaggerated jubilance of the other three. “You were.” His eyes seem to flick to Laurens.   
  
Laurens realises—he realises—truly, this be no apparition. This is— _Hamilton.  
_  
Breathing, and warm, and alive, and very decidedly not drowned, and _damnation_ , it is too much, Laurens is not equipped to manage both terrible grief and terrified elation in such a short span of time.  
  
He stands abruptly, chair scraping noisily. “Sirs, if you would—if you would excuse me but a moment—” He flees, past an incredibly surprised Hamilton, and the worried gazes of Meade and Harrison.   
  
Outside the farmhouse, at the rear, back pressed to the stone wall, Laurens knows not what he should do. Re-enter and apologise for such theatrics? Wait and hope none notice? That seems wishfully unlikely.  
  
He is saved further thinking on this by the man he agonises over appearing beside him.  
  
Before Laurens has even properly accounted for this, he punches Hamilton in the jaw—luckily not where he is gashed. It is not particularly hard, but Hamilton rears back all the same. Stares, hand to the injury, a small bruise quickly forming.   
  
“Laurens, what—?”   
  
Laurens finds himself laughing, near hysterical. “I am sorry, Hamilton, I am, I—”   
  
This does not appear to reassure Hamilton at all. “Laurens are you…well? Meade intimates he were worried for your health when you thought I were dead, your countenance so thoroughly concerned—”   
  
“ _Concerned_.” Laurens is astounded, throws his hands in the air. “Concerned, I—God, Hamilton, that does not begin to cover such! I thought you _dead_ , I thought you gone, I thought of what we had so recently shared and I—damnation, Hamilton, _you were dead_. And I—” he trails away, does not know how to speak on what he felt. “I wished to be dead, too.”   
  
Hamilton’s face fills with shock. “ _Laurens_. You—please never speak such again.”  
  
Laurens only narrows his eyes. “Why not, Sir? It were true.”  
  
“John.” Hamilton’s expression appears incredibly sorrowful. “You must promise me you should not do such, if I were to truly die.”   
  
Laurens’ shoulders slump. “I cannot.”   
  
Hamilton squeezes his eyes shut, pain clearly written in the lines of his face. “If you—if we—if _this_ is to be something that continues, you must promise me that.”   
  
Laurens places a gentle hand over Hamilton’s waist, under his damp coat. Hamilton stills. “You would ask me to promise a lie, then.”   
  
“ _John_.”   
  
“No, Alexander. I have not much in this world I care for, and I found that when I thought you lost, there seemed very little in this world worth anything at all.”   
  
Hamilton slumps forward, his forehead slipping to lean into Laurens’ neck, arms snaking around Laurens’ waist in what is perhaps the most openly affectionate embrace they have yet shared. “I am so sorry you thought me lost, Laurens.” He laughs, but is it unhappy. “We ought to stop scaring one other so.”   
  
Laurens huffs. “I should hope for such.” He pauses, winces. “I am immeasurably sorry for striking you in that manner.”   
  
Hamilton smiles into his neck; it tickles pleasantly. His mouth moves against Laurens’ skin as he speaks. “And why did you, Sir?”   
  
Laurens sighs, leans back against the farmhouse wall, pulling Hamilton flush against him, raising a hand to stroke the back of his neck softly. “I did not intend to, but—you left me.”   
  
“ _Laurens_.” There is such heartbreak in Hamilton’s voice that Laurens should find himself near to sobbing once more. “I promise I shall never do such again.”  
  
Laurens feels a knife slide into the heart that has already been so cut up, bled dry, in these last few hours. “Do not make promises you cannot keep, Alexander.”   
  
Hamilton kisses his neck softly, and it terrifies Laurens that this should feel so like coming home.   
  
Hamilton's arms then tighten around Laurens waist, the heat of them pressing warmly through Laurens’ vest and shirt, coat hiding this embrace from public view.   
  
Hamilton murmurs, gently, into Laurens’ skin: “I know not what I have done to deserve such as you, nor what I have done to be given such as you when the law should see us hung for this, but—whether it be the work of God or that of another, more sinful being, I cannot find in myself any regret for it.”   
  
Laurens shuts his eyes, turns so that his nose rests atop Hamilton’s head. His hair smells of gunpowder and dirtied water, and he should want for this forever.   
  
“Are you truly alive? Not some apparition sent to torture me?”   
  
Hamilton’s hands wander up and down his back, one manages to slide under his vest so that all that separates it and Laurens’ skin is his shirt.   
  
Laurens’ breath hitches as Hamilton presses closer, raises his head, ducks out from under Laurens’ chin. He smirks, before ducking once more, pulling insistently on Laurens’ cravat with the hand that does not wander, so that it comes fluttering away. He nips playfully at the area usually hidden by such, swirls his tongue over the spot, and Laurens gasps.   
  
“Would an apparition do such?” Hamilton murmurs into the sensitive skin.  
  
“No,” Laurens manages to exhale shakily. “I should think not.”   
  
And though he be so overjoyed, almost disbelieving, at Hamilton’s return to him, to life, and he should gasp, bite his lip, as Hamilton kisses and nips and teases, such heartbreak as he felt when he thought Hamilton truly dead, truly lost to him, and he knows, that truly—  
  
 _This must end_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorryyyyy! :( 
> 
> But like, did I not promise some fluff? Because I feel like I delivered <3 (although I guess most of it was actually angsty fluff, not fluffy fluff. Oops)
> 
> Also, if you think they’ve got their shit together now, think again, or in the words of musical Hamilton himself: Just you wait ;)
> 
> As always, apologies for historical inaccuracies, but hopefully we're all having fun anyway <3


	7. Of Morality and the Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, I feel like its been a bit of a weird week, so I hope you’re all doing alright :) Hopefully this can provide a welcome distraction if, like me, you feel like you’ve had an odd week <3
> 
> It’s a long one because I had a lot to say and the words sort of got away from me, but I figured no one would mind :) 
> 
> Enjoy!

_Derrick Casselberry House  
Evansburg  
September 20th – 21st 1777  
  
_It turns out that Hamilton, after making his miraculous escape from both the British and the raging river, dispatched a warning to Congress that they ought to flee, before riding back to Headquarters, and Laurens.  
  
Heeding his warning of a likely immediate British attack, John Hancock and the congressional delegates have fled to Lancaster, Laurens’ father among them.  
  
Laurens is in two minds on this; no matter their quarrels, he is glad his father still lives, and is safe, but he should not enjoy the idea that Philadelphia is determined lost, its people left to probable British rule.  
  
In any case, Hamilton’s warning is proved slightly hasty, it now being near a day and a half since his message and return, and Philadelphia remains free—for the moment.  
  
Whilst Washington’s staff have a house from which to write and plan in Evansburg—whence they arrived post night march from Warwick on the eve of Hamilton’s return—the aides are currently quartered in tents alongside the rest of the army, which camps on the banks of Perkiomen Creek. This, as the house contains not adequate room for both the family whose home it be, _and_ all these army men.  
  
Laurens does not mind as, though his cot is less comfortable than a bed, he is glad of this small modicum of privacy, which he has so lacked these past two months.  
  
Though it be almost noon, and Laurens really ought to be with the other aides-de-camp in their office, else Tilghman complain he be left to all Laurens’ translation work, he instead finds himself in said tent, frantically turning the contents upside down in search of a letter.  
  
This, because Meade had been called away to speak with Washington, and then returned bearing the news he should ride for Lancaster at noon, laden with missives and orders for Congress.  
  
And so, the letter. It is for his father, as the last words they shared were perhaps two weeks ago, and in those his father already complaining of Laurens’ lack of previous correspondence.  
  
There be not much to report, in truth, as Henry Laurens likely knows most of the army’s movements already, and Laurens is not one to include much information of the personal sort in such a letter. Still, he should hope it satisfies his father, so long as he can get it to Meade before he rides.  
  
But where be the confounded thing?  
  
He writ it quickly in the early hours of the morn, after camp were set up, and he is _sure_ he left it in his travel desk beside the cot, but now it seems not so!  
  
Laurens glares with frustration at his open and thoroughly rummaged through trunk, and the papers strewn about his travel desk on the ground, as though they personally have committed this most grievous crime of letter thievery.  
  
With a huff, he kicks his trunk, then regrets this profusely, as his ankle reminds him that it were injured by musket ball still fairly recently, and so should object to such rough handling as a kick against solid wood.  
  
“Hellfire and damnation,” he mutters, dejectedly beginning to pack the scattered paper back from whence it came, when he glances to the side, and—  
  
Ah.  
  
How utterly ridiculous.  
  
If Laurens’ eyes do not deceive him, there appears a paper under his cot, part thereof caught under the canvas wall of the tent. How it should have managed such an escape is perhaps the question, but surely this can only be the missing piece of correspondence?   
  
In hindsight, Laurens supposes it would have been easier to simply move the cot, but such a straightforward action does not cross his mind at present. Instead, he lays down on the ground, and shimmies sideways, so that he lies directly under his cot, sandwiched up against the canvas.  
  
“Ha! Bastard thing.” Indeed, it is the runaway letter, not seeming any worse for its near loss; thankfully, it requires no rewrite then, and he should be able to press it on Meade before he leaves.  
  
In his haste, and thankfulness at having located it, Laurens makes to get up, and is rudely reminded he be under a cot, when the back of his head meets taut canvas bedding.  
  
It does not hurt, but he feels foolish, and lets out a surprised laugh, rolling his eyes at himself. See, this be what lack of sleep should cause; it has one take complete leave of their senses.  
  
Embarrassed, and glad there are none to witness this folly, Laurens instead begins to wriggle out from underneath. His own escape with the letter is arrested, however, when it becomes clear some part of the copper tacks that secure the canvas mattress have hooked themselves into the back of his coat when he tried to stand whilst still underneath. He is caught in the area between mid-back and shoulder blade that should be difficult to reach, particularly when restricted by the continental blue.  
  
It seems the situation grows ever more ridiculous, and Laurens has somehow found himself trapped beneath a cot on this previously fine September day.  
  
He attempts, first, to reach the tacks and unhook them, but it is clear this be a fruitless gesture; he simply cannot contort in that manner when constricted by both a coat, and a cot above his head.  
  
Second, he shifts and moves around as much as possible in an effort to dislodge the tacks; this, unfortunately, also proves unsuccessful.  
  
Trying to twist himself out of his coat sleeves is also unlikely to solve the problem; he has not the space to do so, caught where he is.  
  
By now, Laurens is equal parts exasperated and amused, striving desperately to not dissolve into hysterical laughter as he imagines himself traipsing back to the Evansburg house with a cot attached behind him, should he even be able to lug it so far.  
  
The exasperated part, however, grows stronger by the minute, as he twists and turns; he has no wish to tear his coat.  
  
He imagines this: John Laurens, an aide-de-camp to General Washington, able to survive in battle with the British, yet vanquished by a simple cot.  
  
The humiliation!  
  
And lo, as is wont to occur, such humiliation is immediately compounded by the sound of one searching for him.  
  
“Laurens?” Hamilton, of course; the man has a unique nose for locating Laurens in compromising situations, it seems.  
  
Hamilton, dead one moment, alive the next, confessing his care to Laurens, and Laurens so glad to find him still living that he does not think overly much on the true consequences of such a tryst as theirs—and there has not been the time to do so, since this occurred but a day ago.  
  
Goddamned Alexander Hamilton.  
  
“Laurens? Are you in? Only, Tilghman said you had come to retrieve—”  
  
“I am here,” Laurens huffs out, simultaneously glad he may now be rescued, and cross it should be required at all. He hears the sound of canvas rustling as Hamilton steps into the tent. When he speaks, he sounds mightily perplexed.  
  
“Laurens? Have you been hidden by this mess? Somehow transformed into a letter beneath my feet?”  
  
Abruptly, the ridiculousness of the entire matter be too much for Laurens; he begins to chuckle, and then laugh heartily.  
  
Hamilton’s upside down head appears beside his face; eyes wide and full of mirth. “Laurens? What in God’s name are you doing under there?”  
  
“I—” struggles Laurens, words falling from his lips with great difficulty between laughs. “I find myself stuck.”  
  
“Stuck,” Hamilton repeats flatly. “You find yourself stuck.”  
  
“Indeed, Sir.” Laurens manages to wrangle his laughter into a wide smile instead. “And I were just debating walking the mile to Headquarters with this cot still attached.”  
  
A sharp, shocked laugh escapes Hamilton. “You—dear Laurens, have you been driven quite mad?”  
  
At this, _dear Laurens_ , Laurens sobers. Hamilton has not attached such endearment before, and all comes flooding in. “No, indeed I have not. But if I had been so, after the events of the past few days, could I be blamed for such?”  
  
Hamilton’s own smile drops; his face looks strained, and then suddenly he is lying beside Laurens on the ground, noses not an inch apart.  
  
Laurens startles. “Oh. Hello.”  
  
Hamilton’s smile is soft. “I appear the right way round now, is that so?”  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
Laurens feels his heart constrict, for what can be expected of this, really? Though it be wonderful, so unlikely, to know Hamilton should care in the same manner, and to know Hamilton would wish to continue this, whatever _this_ may be, and to know himself of similar feelings—Hamilton’s faux death surely proving to his mind how his heart may feel—but what can really be had, here, now, between them?  
  
They are two men, playing at the game where a man and a woman should be.  
  
Hamilton must notice the change in Laurens’ temperament. “John? Are you truly alright?”  
  
Laurens sighs, finds the letter he clutches being scrunched somewhat, and tries to silence his dreadful thoughts. “Are any in war truly alright, Hamilton?”  
  
Hamilton blinks. A hand reaches up to lay tenderly against Laurens’ cheek, and he hates how much he should want for these caresses. “Perhaps not, but I do not ask of any. I ask of you.”  
  
Laurens thinks this not the place nor time for such clarifying conversations as may be required between them, so deflects lightly: “At present, I must remind you I am stuck, caught between a cot and a man.”  
  
Hamilton’s mouth quirks in that manner Laurens has started to realise means _insolence_ or _impropriety_. “But stuck between a cot and such a man.”  
  
Laurens smiles against his will. “Hamilton!”  
  
Hamilton grins fully. “Oh, but I have such fun teasing you so.”  
  
Laurens huffs, purposefully blowing the air at Hamilton, who makes a face.  
  
“I think your breath be rather too smelling of coffee, Laurens.”  
  
Laurens glares playfully. “And I think you improper, Sir.”  
  
“Oh?” Hamilton narrows his eyes, flicking them from Laurens’ lips to meet his gaze.  
  
_Oh, no_.  
  
Laurens swallows. “Indeed. Highly improper.”  
  
Hamilton has moved closer, so that when he speaks, his lips near brush Laurens’. “I should think myself capable of being further improper than _that_ , Sir.”  
  
Laurens’ eyes widen. “Hamilton—”  
  
His protestations are cut off as Hamilton’s lips meet his.  
  
The position is rather awkward, Laurens still trapped on his stomach in grass, head turned, but he soon thinks nothing of it, as Hamilton grazes his lower lip, _bites it_ , pulls it between his teeth gently, and his hand slides across Laurens’ jaw to cradle his neck, and Laurens feels such hunger streak through him, so that he gasps, and kisses Hamilton harder, presses deeper, slides their tongues together in a manner that feels as though sparks race through his veins instead of blood.  
  
With his hand closest to Hamilton, Laurens reaches out, rests it atop Hamilton’s waist, traces the layers of fabric, moves closer to the waistband of Hamilton’s breeches, feels the hitch in breath he makes at this touch through their kiss and grins into it, tracing more insistently, has enough material between his fingers to find purchase, and untucks the tiniest part of Hamilton’s shirt, fingertips finally meeting the smooth, warm skin just above Hamilton’s hipbone.  
  
Hamilton jolts at the touch, disconnecting their kiss, and Laurens opens his eyes to see Hamilton’s head thrown back slightly, grass mussing his hair.  
  
As though Hamilton feels this gaze, he glances back down at Laurens, eyes dark and heavy, before he surges into a messy, frantic kiss once more, the force of it seeming to convey sheer desperation, fear, and fiery lust all at once in such a heady, intoxicating rush that Laurens thinks himself an addict to Hamilton’s lips, this connection between them of sating starvation and validating existence.  
  
Laurens withdraws his fingers, already missing the feel of Hamilton’s skin beneath them, and Hamilton makes a needy whining noise that shoots far too much heat into Laurens’ groin. He groans involuntarily, feels Hamilton gasp hungrily, and hastily disconnects their lips.  
  
“Hamilton—Stop.”  
  
Hamilton pouts, appearing so imposed upon Laurens should laugh. He reaches out and removes a strand of grass caught in the hair at Hamilton’s forehead.  
  
“Alexander, you forget I be still stuck, and we scrabbling in the dirt like this some illicit escapade.”  
  
Hamilton raises his eyebrows suggestively. “Is it not?”  
  
Laurens sighs. “To the law, certainly. To me—” he pauses, then whispers: “It is not so.”  
  
Hamilton blinks, features softening. “No. I should hope for more than that, also.”  
  
This be not entirely what Laurens meant, but he does not feel he has the will for such discussion now.  
  
He coughs. “In any case, I really must give the letter that causes my predicament to Meade before he is away, and yet I remain attached to this confounded cot.”  
  
Hamilton makes a face, chuckles. “And who is this all important letter for?”  
  
Laurens hums. “My father.”  
  
At this response, Hamilton’s eyes near bulge from his face. “We—I—we undertook such whilst you held a letter for your _father_ in hand?”  
  
Laurens immediately understands the unease Hamilton displays, but can only grin, amused that _this_ be what scandalises Hamilton in such actions as they undertake. “Never fear, Hamilton; letters cannot portray what is not written, no matter what they may witness.”  
  
Hamilton frowns, but it is not a true one. “I know such, but it should still unnerve me, a letter for Henry Laurens witnessing his son and I engaged in such a manner.”  
  
Laurens laughs. “That sounds ridiculous, Sir.”  
  
Hamilton only huffs, draws back.  
  
“Hamilton,” Laurens finds he must remind him. “I am _still stuck_.”  
  
“Perhaps I shall leave you such, for mocking me so.”  
  
“ _Hamilton_.”  
  
A small smirk creeps across Hamilton’s face. “Or perhaps I shall leave you such, as it means I may engage you in kisses whenever I might wish.”  
  
Laurens flushes. “I think you may manage that far better were I not trapped.”  
  
Hamilton appears to pretend consideration of this, then he climbs onto all fours and inspects the cot. He slides his hand across Laurens’ back—who must suppress a shiver at such action—and unhooks his coat with ease. He sits up on his knees, watching Laurens.  
  
“There,” he says. “You are freed.”  
  
Laurens gazes upwards, caught in Hamilton’s stare. “Perhaps I should not wish to be so after all.”  
  
Hamilton hums, smiles softly. “It is just as well I found you, for I am dispatched also at noon, as Meade.”  
  
At this, Laurens hurriedly scrambles to his feet, brushing grass and dirt from his front. “You are? Why so?”  
  
Hamilton draws himself up, appears proud. “I have been given directive to ride to Philadelphia in order to oversee the collection of further supplies for our army from the people.”  
  
Laurens stares. Blinks. To have Hamilton returned when he thought him dead, and then sent away once more so soon—“You alone? Is that not rather perilous?”  
  
But Hamilton only grins, reaches out and brushes a twig from Laurens’ shoulder. “No, Laurens, not I alone. I am given command of one hundred men for this mission.”  
  
Laurens’ mouth parts with surprise. “Command?”  
  
Hamilton’s shoulders slump. “Nay, well, not as such; though I do have leave to order them as I see fit.”  
  
“Even if it be not field command,” Laurens points out. “This is truly a sign Washington should place indiscriminate trust in your abilities.”  
  
“Aye,” Hamilton grins fiercely. “For certain, as such a mission as this requires much tact and delicacy, _non_? So that we may not arouse resentment in those we requisition from.”  
  
Laurens quirks a grin. “Perhaps the General has not chosen the correct man after all, then.”  
  
Hamilton gapes. “ _Laurens_. You know I am well able to speak or write in a manner that should convince others to do as asked, if it be so required.”  
  
Laurens laughs quietly. “Indeed, though I have never witnessed such subtlety in your dealings with me.”  
  
At this, Hamilton’s quick resentment fades. He winks. “Ah, but that be only because I have not wished to be subtle in my dealings with you, John.” He pauses, smirks. “If any, I should have been even less subtle than I were, for you to realise what I intended with such actions sooner.”  
  
Laurens flushes. Clears his throat. “In any case, Hamilton, if you must be away, then I ought to catch Meade before he, too, leaves.”  
  
Hamilton nods, then tilts his head. “Yes, certainly. If I may—?”  
  
Laurens frowns. “May, what, Sir?”  
  
Hamilton’s eyes crease with a fondness that causes Laurens to feel both as though he may melt with the sweetness, and also should run from such attached affection as fast as he is able.  
  
Hamilton leans up and presses a gentle, closed mouth kiss to Laurens’ lips, then withdraws. “I shall see you once I make my return.”  
  
Laurens’ heart picks up speed, races with fear, and indecision, and helplessness. He suddenly, impulsively, grasps at Hamilton’s hands with his, squeezes them both, draws them up before him and holds them to his chest.  
  
“Return without such fatal theatrics, this time, if you would, Alexander?”  
  
Hamilton regards Laurens wordlessly, so open, and wary, and yet also with such an expression of wonderous realisation upon his face that Laurens should want to weep. “I shall strive to return without even a scratch, if it should cause you to worry less on my health.”  
  
“Aye,” breathes out Laurens, releasing Hamilton’s hands. “I should prefer that.”  
  
Hamilton nods once, sharply. “I must see to my horse, then, and you to your letter.”  
  
“Indeed,” agrees Laurens quietly.  
  
Hamilton hesitates a second, throws once last glance at Laurens, then strides through the canvas flap.  
  
Laurens watches the flap sway slightly in the breeze; fears on what hurt he has opened his heart to now.  
  
It should most certainly be better to end this before it properly begun, but now such must wait until Hamilton returns.

  
The next day passes in the usual manner, Laurens being distracted by the sheer amount of paper that crosses the aides’ desks, and the ridiculous exuberance of Tilghman, who must have decided that in the absence of Meade, creation of cheer should fall to him.  
  
Reed seems unimpressed by this, but strangely, less irritated than were it Meade or Hamilton participating in the jests; perhaps it be true that he may indeed dislike some more than others.  
  
Their office certainly appears much quieter with those two being absent, Laurens and Harrison both usually only participating in wit when one of the others should instigate it first. Captain Gibbs joins them at a desk to work the accounts for some time, which has happened only rarely previous, since he is often busy with the duties of the life-guards, and seemingly usually prefers his own space—but this house provides little of that.  
  
As such, Laurens realises he has interacted with Gibbs only minimally thus far, but he seems an agreeable sort, and perhaps the closest in age to Laurens and Hamilton, if only by a year or so on the other aides.  
  
Gibbs appears to be grinning rather warmly at a particular paper, and Laurens thinks to query on it, but Tilghman speaks first.  
  
“Do numbers and accounts please you so, Captain?”  
  
Gibbs looks up, startled, perhaps unused to the aides’ banter as this. “Not as such, though when they are balanced it is certainly satisfying.”  
  
Tilghman gestures at the paper. “Then why do you grin so?”  
  
“A letter from my sister,” Gibbs replies, setting it aside and seeming to reach for ink and quill to continue his work. If he accompanied them more often, he would know this should not arrest Tilghman’s conversational momentum.  
  
“Sister!” exclaims Tilghman. “I did not know you had such.”  
  
Gibbs sighs, but smiles lightly. “Indeed, for you have not asked.”  
  
Tilghman blinks, and Laurens thinks it amusing he has had the conversation turned back on him.  
  
“He has you there, Tilghman.”  
  
Tilghman narrows his eyes at Laurens. “You have not queried either, Sir.”  
  
“No,” agrees Laurens. “But I do not pretend that I should know.”  
  
Gibbs’ gaze is switching rapidly between them. “I shall end this odd argument by inserting that I have one sister, one brother and no wife or children as yet. Does this satisfy you, Tilghman?”  
  
Tilghman chuckles. “Ah, indeed, my curiousity is quite sated.”  
  
Gibbs appears rather nonplussed at the interaction, and Harrison smiles, teasing kindly: “I think this may be why Gibbs so rarely joins us, for you provide an atmosphere ill-suited to our work quite often, Tilghman.”  
  
“Indeed,” Fitzgerald interjects, looking up also. “Between Tilghman, Hamilton, Laurens and Meade, one often wonders how we accomplish anything, ay, Reed?”  
  
Reed looks up sharply at his name, nearly seems inclined to _laugh,_ and Tilghman appears so shocked that he all but falls out of his chair.  
  
“Laurens, do you witness this?”  
  
“Indeed, Sir,” Laurens chuckles in response.  
  
Reed frowns at them both. “I am as partial to wit as the next man, I just rarely appreciate yours, Sirs, when I attempt to work.”  
  
“Never!” scoffs Tilghman. “If only Meade were here to witness this rare occurrence.”  
  
Reed’s mouth jerks into what could _almost_ be a smile. “If Meade were here, or Hamilton, I should not admit to such.”  
  
“Am I awake?” wonders Tilghman, “Do I dream, Laurens? What are these words I hear?”  
  
Laurens rolls his eyes. “I think you not asleep; it be more likely you are simply quite mad, but since this be your usual temperament, I am hard pressed to notice the difference.”  
  
Poor Gibbs seems rather lost at all this, but is, at least, smiling in good humour, and Laurens thinks if he joined them more often he should prove a useful player in the game to verbally outwit Tilghman.  
  
Harrison has returned to his work sorting the day’s new dispatches, but remarks: “Pay them no mind, Gibbs; Laurens and Tilghman should enjoy impaling one another on their wit wherever and whenever possible, it seems.”  
  
Laurens feels oddly warmed to realise how truly he now ranks alongside the other aides as a natural part of this office, one that must be explained to those on the outside of such.  
  
Still, even as he smiles and teases, he wonders on Hamilton, and what gamble of affection has been begun between them. He hopes him safe, in Philadelphia, and he hopes his heart well-guarded for what Laurens might say to him upon his return.  
  


A harried looking Tallmadge rushing through the corridor, querying the aides on Washington’s whereabouts, is the first sign that they should not be allowed rest in Evansburg for long.  
  
Though Laurens attempts to ask Tallmadge of why he searches out the General, Tallmadge only smiles tightly and grasps Laurens on the shoulder, saying cryptically: “I would make sure your things are well packed,” then hurries off once more to be about whatever curious venture of spying he engages in at present.  
  
As such, and as has lately been the pattern of army life, Laurens is woken that eve about an hour from midnight, having only retired to his tent and sleep an hour or so previous, and only then because Harrison had forced them all from the room, each aide operating on no more than three or four hours sleep the past few days.  
  
It is Harrison that wakes him now, with a far more gentle shake than Tilghman’s preferred method of papers smacked to the head.  
  
Hamilton has still not yet returned, and this should not be worrisome, for Philadelphia is a fair ride, but Laurens’ heart refuses recognition of this, no matter what logics his head should assure. And therein lies the problem: he ought not be so engaged with worry for one single man that what he undertakes for their cause should come in second place.  
  
Aside from the many moral and legal obstructions to their affections, this be truly why these affairs of the heart should not be begun between soldiers such as they.  
  
The army marches rapidly westwards to Pottsgrove under the cover of darkness, as scouts have spotted British troops moving up the west banks of the Schuylkill, and Washington fears Howe means to attack Reading for the Continental military supplies held there.  
  
At least this should keep the British from Philadelphia, and Hamilton.  
  
_  
_ Though the main body of the army takes longer to pack and move, Washington’s staff make it to Pottsgrove near to three thirty in the early hours, and Harrison dispatches them straight back to bed, with each barely even glancing at the house they find themselves in before heads hit the pillow and snores begin.  
  
Laurens would protest—as he thinks Harrison does not sleep, but instead begins addressing dispatches instructing others of the move—but is so tired, he does not.  
  
Strangely, he is awoken after what feels like he has only been asleep perhaps an hour. He blinks into the darkness, willing his vision to adjust, before rearing back and almost toppling out of bed, as eyes appear out of the gloom not an inch from his face, their owner kneeling ominously in the shadows.  
  
“Dear God,” he splutters in whisper, conscious the room is shared with all other aides—including Reed.  
  
“No, Sir, not God, merely Hamilton, though I thank you for the compliment,” the voice whispers back, and Laurens swears.  
  
“Hamilton, damn you, why must you frighten me so?” Laurens’ exhausted and sleep addled mind takes a moment, before—“You are not in Philadelphia?”  
  
“Hush,” murmurs Hamilton. “The others still sleep. And no, clearly, I am returned.” He sounds amused, and Laurens realises his fatigue driven blunder.  
  
“Ah, yes, clearly, else how would you be present here to scare me so?” Laurens pauses, runs a hand tiredly over his face, sits up further from the blankets. “You knew to head for Pottsgrove so soon?”  
  
Hamilton chuckles quietly. “No, indeed, I arrived at Evansburg perhaps an hour post your departure, and so I am here late, but here at least. It were a long ride, but worth all.”  
  
Laurens smiles into the dimness, sees the flash of Hamilton’s teeth as he does the same. “I am glad you are returned safe,” he murmurs.  
  
“Aye,” whispers Hamilton. A hand emerges out of the dark to brush Laurens’ cheek and he raises his own hand to catch it, squeezes lightly.  
  
Hamilton hums quietly, withdraws, then seems to fumble with boots and coat. “Shove over, if you would, Sir.”  
  
Laurens startles, splutters. “Hamilton, you are not—the others—”  
  
Hamilton snorts softly. “There are none more beds free, Laurens. What else should you suggest?”  
  
Laurens can suggest nothing, as his mind has gone blank, fuzzing silence dampening his thoughts, ears ringing. Hamilton and he have not shared a bed since before—well. Since before, when it should have meant nothing but convenience. Now, however—  
  
Hamilton has very quickly divested himself of boots, stockings, coat, cravat and vest. He kneels beside the bed, gazing up at Laurens as he sits, eyes shining mischievously in the dark.  
  
“Would you prefer I lay with Tilghman? With Reed?”  
  
Laurens cannot stop a small laugh, much as he panics inside. “I think not. But—”  
  
“You worry over much,” Hamilton murmurs. “Most do not see what they do not expect to see, and all know us firm friends. Why should I not intrude upon your company when there be no other option but to do so?”  
  
This is logical, of course, and Hamilton has such a way with words to convince most any of anything, but Laurens still fears—he fears to allow such affection to grow, to allow Hamilton to think it will continue in this manner, when they truly should not—  
  
But what is one night, really? A few hours at best?  
  
Can Laurens not be selfish, this once, and pretend such affections might be indulged?   
  
He decides to think no more, and shifts over wordlessly, lifting the blankets so Hamilton may also slide beneath them.  
  
Hamilton’s eyes grow round in the dark, as though he truly thought Laurens may refuse, his arguments be damned. Carefully, he climbs in beside Laurens, and as they lie down, their noses bump.  
  
Laurens breathes in sharply as Hamilton’s lips brush his, feather light, delicate, ephemeral; a soft imprint of a kiss, and all the more sweet for it.  
  
“Sleep well, John,” Hamilton murmurs, eyes already slipping shut as he turns over, so that none may suspect impropriety when they wake.  
  
Laurens gazes at Hamilton’s turned body a moment longer, heart beating wildly, fighting the urge to turn him back over, wrap arms around him, engage in desperate kisses.  
  
One selfish night may perhaps turn into two, or three, and then where shall Laurens be?  
  
He knows he only makes their situation worse with such allowances, and yet cannot seem to discover the self-restraint he so desperately desires.  
  
“Sleep well, Alexander,” he finally murmurs in reply, knowing him already likely such by his steady breathing. Laurens, too, turns over, so that their backs barely touch, but then he feels Hamilton’s bare foot brush up against his calf, and his heart clenches with fondness, and want, and terror.  
  


***

_John Potts House  
Pottsgrove  
September 22nd – 25th 1777  
_  
The manor they find themselves in is large, and home to a Quaker family, whose deceased father built the place; Laurens does not see them overly much, as they stay out of the aides’ quarters, attending to the house and farm, he supposes.  
  
The family seems to have several servants and own quite a few slaves, but Laurens manages to avoid such arguments on abolition as engaged in before with Fitzgerald by biting his tongue ferociously, and focusing on the pile of correspondence heaped upon his desk.  
  
Meade is also not yet returned from Lancaster, so arguments are further avoided when Fitzgerald is dispatched there later in the morn, laden with additional letters for the President and congressmen.  
  
Tilghman groans dramatically when Fitzgerald returns with news of his task, sleepless lines under his eyes seeming to crease with added indignance.  
  
“If it should be only Hamilton, Laurens, and I working on all this correspondence _and_ translation we shall never sleep again.”  
  
Harrison glances up from his work and huffs. “And what of Reed and I? Are we not here working, also? Are we made ghosts, somehow?”  
  
Tilghman waves a drying letter dismissively. “You know what I mean to imply. As Military Secretary and Adjunct General you both have other tasks to attend to besides simple correspondence.”  
  
Hamilton shrugs, does not lift pen from paper. “I do not mind.”  
  
“No,” Tilghman replies dryly. “You should never mind, Hammie; I think you subsist on ink and words more than food and air.”  
  
Harrison only rolls his eyes and stands from his desk. “Meade shall be back afore long, I dare say. Any for coffee?”  
  
A chorus of _aye’s_ follow him from the room; they cannot have slept more than three hours post march, and Harrison none, so coffee should become as essential as breathing.  
  
As Harrison strides from the room, Laurens turns to his next piece of correspondence, and realises it addressed to him. It cannot be from his father; no dispatch from Lancaster has yet arrived today. He opens it curiously, eyes scanning the lines.  
  
“ _Mon Dieu_.”  
  
Hamilton and Tilghman both look up sharply.  
  
“Laurens?” queries Tilghman. “Is your letter so adverse?”  
  
“No, no,” Laurens assures. “Merely a surprise, is all.”  
  
“Oh?” asks Hamilton. “How so?”  
  
Laurens stands from his desk, crosses the room to stand beside Hamilton’s. “It is addressed to you also.”  
  
“Hamilton?” Tilghman sounds rather surprised, and further intrigued. “Who should think to write you and Hamilton as one?”  
  
“Sullivan.” Laurens quirks a smile; he knows how preposterous it should seem.  
  
“Sullivan?” Tilghman queries. “General Sullivan? The same Sullivan that endured several tongue lashings from our _petit lion_ via correspondence pre-Brandywine?”  
  
Laurens nods. “Indeed, the same.” He pauses, unashamedly, for dramatics. “He faces a court of inquiry.”  
  
“No!” Tilghman, again. “Staten Island, I presume?”  
  
Laurens grins. “Aye, that, and also his permitting the divisions under his direct command be outflanked at Brandywine.”  
  
Unusually, Reed looks up, and appears, oddly, likewise interested. “And he writes of such to you and _Hamilton_?” His tone conveys much disbelief.  
  
Hamilton’s eyebrows are raised. “It appears so, Reed. He writes to ask if we might provide testimony of his conduct at Brandywine.”  
  
“He writes to ask _you_ this.” Tilghman seems near to laughing. “He thinks you shall respond favourably? Laurens, I may understand. But you?”  
  
Surprisingly, however, Hamilton frowns thoughtfully. “Aye. I should not like the man personally, but—well. I did not see much of him on the field at Brandywine, truth be told, but he were rather honourable during the retreat, were he not?”  
  
Laurens frowns too, mirth fading. “Indeed, from what I saw; he rallied the men when we were passing Weedon’s brigade until his horse was shot from under him.”  
  
Tilghman appears astounded. “Whether this be true or _non_ , Staten Island were a disaster, were it not?”  
  
Hamilton shrugs. “He does not ask us of Staten Island, only Brandywine.”  
  
“And you should provide him with favourable testimony, then?’ Tilghman cannot seem to believe it. “What of the true worth of the man?”  
  
Reed interrupts, gaze on Hamilton calculatingly thoughtful. “Sullivan shall be pardoned, all know this. And he may yet be given further command; might be grateful to a Lieutenant Colonel that spoke well of him, when there were favourable truth to be spoken.”  
  
Hamilton does not respond but to narrow his eyes at Reed crossly, but Laurens thinks there may be some honesty in his words, even if Hamilton does not entirely intend such as that.  
  
Laurens himself does not merit such an approach, exactly; though it is true he did not witness much of Sullivan during Brandywine that were not favourable, the failed flank defence should speak for itself.  
  
But Hamilton—did Laurens not say he seemed desperate to rise, to prove himself? And if this should help…well. Hamilton is a good man, and honest, but driven, and whilst this does not require dishonesty at all, it seems somehow near to it. Still, such an approach could assist Laurens also.  
  
“Let us reply,” he suggests, pulling a chair over to sit beside Hamilton, closer than strictly necessary.  
  
Hamilton grins sharply, grabs a clean sheet, readies his quill. “Indeed.”  
  
Tilghman smirks. “You shall reply as one, then? How you, of all of us, have found such a firm friend in Laurens I shall never understand, Hamilton.”  
  
“Sullivan addresses us as one,” Laurens points out, wills himself not to flush.  
  
“Aye, true,” Tilghman shrugs. “It should not waste paper, anyhow.”  
  
“ _Exactement_ ,” Hamilton confirms. “And you shall simply have to wonder on how I secured the friendship of one such as Laurens, for I would not give you the secret and have you steal him.”  
  
Tilghman laughs in good humour, countenance unoffended, taking this for the jest it seems.  
  
Yet, beneath the desk, Hamilton bumps his knee against Laurens’, murmurs, near inaudible, breath ghosting across Laurens’ cheek: “He should not steal you anyhow, for I doubt you desire his kisses.”  
  
“Hamilton!” Laurens’ cry is louder than he meant, and Harrison, who returns with coffee, startles.  
  
“I almost spilled this, Sir,” he complains. “Pray tell, what has Hamilton done now to warrant such outrage?”  
  
Laurens shakes his head, presses his knee sharply against Hamilton’s in return. “He merely speaks improperly, as he is wont.”  
  
“Ha!” Harrison rolls his eyes as he distributes the coffee in mismatched teacups. “A rare day where Hamilton does not do such, I think.”  
  
Hamilton only laughs good-naturedly, hand snaking under the table to rest on Laurens’ leg, who tries not to jolt at this touch, this behaviour.  
  
“I would not be myself if I did not.” Hamilton’s fingertips dig into Laurens’ thigh, and he bites his lip hard for attempted distraction.  
  
As they work on the letter for Sullivan, heads bent towards one another, debating phrases quietly so as not to disturb others, Laurens should not feel so content, and yet he does.  
  
They sign the letter—  
  
_We have the Honour to be, Sir, Your most Obedt Servts.  
A Hamilton  
John Laurens  
  
_—and to see their names written beside one another so—good God.  
  
Laurens must speak to Hamilton of this; it must end.  
  


Meade returns late evening that day, bearing grim news that General Wayne’s force at Paoli have been surprised, ambushed and routed; many dead, many wounded, and near eighty taken prisoner.  
  
Philadelphia lies wide open for British taking, Washington fooled into stationing near Reading whilst Howe moves for the capital after all.  
  
The General visits the aides’ office soon after, withdrawn and tense, with many orders and requests for Congress, other generals, other divisions. All aides are set to piles of work; none so much as speak but to inquire on how best to phrase certain asks, would others like a meal, does any require wine, or coffee, or fresh wax?  
  
As such, Laurens has no moment to address Hamilton privately, not even as night creeps in, for none retire until well past midnight, and when Laurens finally succumbs to exhaustion, Hamilton still writes, quill jerking in a frenzy, fingertips stained black, gaze desperate.  
  
As Laurens drags himself up to bed, past Hamilton’s desk, he murmurs: “Do not let the cause kill you at a desk, Sir, when there is glory yet to be had.”  
  
Hamilton barely glances up, mood strangely as low as Laurens has seen it. “I think that death at a desk from sheer dedication may be the best I should hope for.”  
  
Laurens worries on this sudden despair, from whence it comes, for he knows such a black temperament well, has experienced it intimately; where one feels buried alive in fears and impossible desires, and all should seem bleak and colourless and unbearable. He wishes Hamilton did not experience such, for to know this heavy pain is a true horror.  
  
Laurens glances around—there are none else present but Harrison, who concentrates sincerely—so he touches a fingers softly to Hamilton’s cheek, then brushes over it lightly with his knuckles.  
  
At this, Hamilton glances up and smiles tiredly, but the emptiness behind his eyes does not retreat, and Laurens can do no more with Harrison behind him.  
  
This be why he should never have allowed himself into Hamilton’s affections; he cannot give him the happiness he so desperately seeks when, if any should witness this affection, they shall be court martialled, and perhaps, hung.

***

_Continental Army Encampment  
Near Pennypacker Mills  
September 26th – 29th 1777_

_We shall move towards Philadelphia today, as the weather is fair and our reinforcements are at some distance below, ready to fall in with us_.

These words dance round Laurens’ mind as he stares up at the canvas roof of his tent, barely makes it out in the pre-dawn light. Another letter for his father, unsent, and nearly outdated, though it written only yesterday morn. Far more optimistic than he feels, but what else should he say?  
  
Philadelphia is finally lost, after long anticipation of such, and now they camp here, back on the east bank of Perkiomen Creek, though further north than before, watching to see whether they might attack the British, where Howe might station troops they may yet strike at.  
  
Though exhausted, Laurens finds sleep eludes him; he is distracted by the thought of what battles may occur now, and also by Hamilton’s steady breathing, for they find themselves tentmates once more.  
  
What is shared between them still lies improperly addressed, and Laurens feels it really ought to be resolved before they take the field anew, regret and affection warring in his soul.  
  
Hamilton snores lightly, and Laurens sighs. Even in sleep, Hamilton appears more successful than he.  
  
He turns over, attempts to close his eyes, grows uncomfortable, turns again, and then:  
  
“Laurens, is your cot filled with bugs? Cease your moving.”  
  
Laurens blinks, startles. “I thought you sleeping.”  
  
A huff. “I were, ‘til your restlessness woke me.”  
  
Laurens snorts, responds softly: “I apologise.”  
  
There is silence, and Laurens thinks Hamilton asleep again, but: “What is it that troubles your sleep so?”  
  
Laurens does not know what he should answer. “Why do you suppose it troubled?”  
  
“John.” An amused, languid chuckle, as though Hamilton’s humour be also burdened with sleep. “If it is not, then I should think you ill from the amount of tossing you seem to find necessary.”  
  
Laurens thinks to make a jest from this, produce a laugh, but it is apparent his heart has other ideas, for instead of what his mind should think, he blurts out: “What do we do, here, Alexander?”  
  
He cannot turn to face the other man, cannot bear it, but hears Hamilton sit bolt upright, cot squeaking.  
  
“I do not—on what subject do you speak? What we do, here, in the war, or—”  
  
Laurens cuts him off. It seems this conversation will finally out. “No, Sir. Here, between us.”  
  
He hears Hamilton breathe in sharply. “You speak on our—affection.”  
  
Now, Laurens suddenly finds himself sitting also, glances across at Hamilton, who is rigid on the edge of his cot, bare of blankets.  
  
“Yes,” he bites out, finds his fists clenching.  
  
The pre-dawn light illuminates Hamilton’s form strangely, he appears lit from within, as though his soul shines with a transient glow; it gifts him a fiery halo, as if he an angel, though their affections be anything but Godly.   
  
Hamilton crosses his arms defiantly, shivers. “What of it?”  
  
Laurens also swings out of the blankets, perches on cot edge, toes cold on the dewy grass. “What do you mean, what of it? We engage in illicit behaviour, Hamilton, that which we could be court martialled for, and moreover, scripture names such as we share a sin. If we are found out, we could be hung! How can affection born of sin as this be true?”  
  
Hamilton narrows his eyes. “I know myself uncaring of this aspect, for on the contrary, how can any true affection as this be a sin? I think you also do not care, and simply make excuses, else you would not have engaged in such with me so willingly previous.”  
  
“Of course I care, Sir!” Laurens must prevent himself from shouting, settles for angry whispers instead. “Of course I care. Do you not think I wrestle with this black part of my soul each and every day? That I find myself giving in to its desires be surely not to my credit.”  
  
Hamilton tilts his head slightly. “I think you tell yourself this so that you may not feel as guilty for indulging in your preferences.”  
  
Laurens stiffens. “That is cruel.”  
  
Hamilton only frowns, does not retract his statement. “Cruel, perhaps, but that makes it no less true.”  
  
Laurens grits his teeth, feels hurt and rage tear up his throat. “That is—you are—how can—how can you speak such unkind things, and yet say you care for me, that this affection not a sin?”  
  
Hamilton suddenly slumps, fiery steel leaving his frame. He appears smaller now, softer. “Laurens, I—I am sorry. I only mean to ask, to provoke, perhaps—what really troubles you so? I think it not the morality of this, not truly. I think you may believe it so, but I also think it be an excuse for you to end this. For that is what you seek, with such discussions, is it not? To end what we have begun?”  
  
And to have it put such—though Laurens convinces himself he should want it to end, it _needs_ to end, it _must_ end, when Hamilton phrases it so—  
  
“Yes,” he confesses, but can find no more words to confirm it; they are stolen by want and fear.  
  
Hamilton surges off his cot, kneels at Laurens’ feet, clasps Laurens’ hands in his, stares up at him beseechingly. “I told you I should be content to remain friends if you had no wish to continue this, and I meant true when I spoke such, but now I find—to think of reverting to how we were prior…I cannot imagine such pain, John.”  
  
“ _Hamilton_ ,” Laurens feels his face crumple; silent tears tease at his eyelashes. “You make this more difficult than it need be.”  
  
“Alexander,” whispers Hamilton, quiet devastation seeping through his tone. “Address me as Alexander and speak such again.”  
  
“Alexander,” Laurens tries. “Alexander—”  
  
He imagines never feeling Hamilton’s hands in his as this, never kissing him again, imagines watching him fall on the field and know he gave this up, for what? For honour? For positions? For lives? Which of those should transcend the others for Hamilton’s place in his heart?  
  
“Alexander,” he begins again, and decides to speak true. “It should end precisely because I care so, do you not see? I care so, and yet it shall still come to naught. I should give you my entire heart and then watch it torn away, as you must marry after the war, and succeed.”  
  
He sees Hamilton about to object, continues quickly before he may lose his nerve: “Further, what if, in such danger as war provides, our partiality for one another is provoked into appearing obvious? If one of us should die, and the other inconsolable? It should affect our work, then, and Washington, and the cause, and _we could be hung_ —”  
  
“Laurens.” Hamilton’s tone is tight, stern. His hands grip Laurens’ so that his fingernails dig into the skin, sharp, visceral. “I should not want for a wife if I have you; why should this come to naught simply because others cannot know of its existence? I care not for their knowledge, nor their blessing, and if this be ended, I shall still be inconsolable if you fall. I should still have been even if it were never begun!”  
  
“No, no,” whispers Laurens desperately. He ought to share he already has a wife, but finds he cannot—he should still hope that Hamilton may find happiness in this way, a happiness Laurens’ is denied, and does not wish to deny Hamilton despite their sins, and the pain it shall cause him if this tryst continues.  
  
“You shall want for a wife, and a place in society, and I cannot give you that with such as we share—”  
  
“Oh, John.” Hamilton releases his hands, and he feels the loss keenly. “We are at _war_ , as you spoke hitherto, do you recall? There may not be an after the war, for either of us. If I should let that stop me from having you here, now, then I should carry my regrets for all eternity.”  
  
“Hamilton,” Laurens tries again. “ _Hamilton_.” He feels himself losing the argument, again, for what weapons does he have against such persuasive and exquisite words as Hamilton can summon at will?  
  
What weapons can he wield against Hamilton’s hungry intelligent eyes, fiery soul, swollen lips, gentle caresses?  
  
He has none, and he is spent from trying to defeat them.  
  
“Why must you plague me so?” he whispers. “Why must I have found one such as you?”  
  
Hamilton rises to his feet slowly, then ever so carefully lowers himself so that he straddles Laurens’ lap, hands cupping his jaw, those beautiful lips so close to engaging his.  
  
“We have souls alike, John,” Hamilton murmurs, speaking so that he uses only the air Laurens exhales. “And I, for one, am glad to know there is a man such as you in the world, and that I of all may claim him.”  
  
With such sincerely spoken words as these, Hamilton must be declared victor. Further, he then rolls his hips _ever so slightly_ against Laurens’, who gasps from the heat and fire elicited by such contact, and is then as helpless as he a ship, and Hamilton the commanding tide; slips hands under Hamilton’s loose shirt and digs his fingers into the warm flesh above his hipbones.  
  
Hamilton moans as he does so, grinds down again, and Laurens feels every nerve catch ablaze, every inch of his skin scream for Hamilton’s touch, yearn for his body against him; he captures Hamilton’s stunning mouth with his lips, and should survive only if they may share breath again and again and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: I may be posting a day early next week, because I’m visiting my grandparents after not being able to see them for a whole damn year.
> 
> Also, I’m currently planning out the rest of the chapters so *hopefully* should have an approximate chapter amount I can put on here soon.
> 
> Again, no idea on sleeping arrangements in the houses/headquarters/tents, I’m making this up for entertainment folks ;) 
> 
> Did I look up what an 18th century American revolutionary war army cot looked like purely to see if Laurens could get stuck under it? Yes, yes I did :D
> 
> And like I *know* it was probably because of convenience, but Hamilton and Laurens really did write some letters as a pair, names signed together and everything. I don’t know why, but that really gets me in the feels, ouch <3
> 
> Letter excerpts from:  
> -“Lieutenant Colonels Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens to Major General John Sullivan, 21 September 1777” https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-01-02-0287  
> -“Correspondence between Hon. Henry Laurens and his son John, 1777-1780” https://www.jstor.org/stable/27575094


	8. Battles and Broken Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, hope you’re doing well <3 
> 
> Yep, this update is a day early :p but we’ll be returning to the usual Friday uploads again next week :)
> 
> As a warning (slight spoiler but also not, because its history): There’s a minor death scene in this chapter. It’s not long, and not graphic, but there are descriptions of wounds and blood, so if you’d rather avoid, it begins with ‘Where is White’ and ends with ‘”No,” shouts Laurens’. 
> 
> This is the first chapter to make it to 9000+ words—hopefully its length is justified ;)
> 
> Enjoy!

_Continental Army Column  
Near Germantown   
October 4th 1777_

Though it is still dark, and no sign of sunrise yet, Laurens fears that they have not made the near sixteen mile march, from whence they camped near Worcester Township the last few days, anywhere near quick enough. They ought to be upon Germantown—where Howe stations nine thousand men—before day break, else their hard-worked element of surprise be lost.  
  
Laurens reaches a nervous hand to his hat, thinks to make certain the white paper that marks him in the dark as a man of the Continental Army, and not an enemy, is still in place.  
  
“Laurens,” he hears hissed from beside him. “I will tell you if your paper no longer appears visible.”   
  
Hamilton, who has been ill-tempered since two days hence, when Washington revealed Laurens should be stationed with General Sullivan and the vanguard for the attempted march on Germantown.  
  
It seems their favourable testimony should have benefits after all, as Sullivan requested them both with his division. Though Washington would not part with Hamilton, he permits in the case of Laurens, but has warned him against unnecessary brashness.  
  
Hamilton’s ill-temper, therefore, is twofold, with him wishing to be in the thick of the action, as Laurens, and also wishing Laurens out of it.  
  
Laurens knows such for certainty, as Hamilton has worried on the subject any rare moment of privacy they have shared, since he last spoke on how he believes their affections should continue a week past.   
  
Perhaps now he, as Laurens has, may regret such, as they ride into this peril that endangers both physical bodies _and_ affairs of the heart.  
  
At present, Hamilton is stationed with Sullivan anyhow, as he should be sent with missives back to Washington at the rear of this column—it being one of four—if they come upon any British soldiers.   
  
“I should still like to make sure,” Laurens finally murmurs in reply.   
  
He hears Hamilton snort, vaguely sees him move his horse closer in the dimness. “I would not allow any such thing to occur that may place you in further harm than you already place yourself.”   
  
Laurens can only roll his eyes, this being an argument he has heard also many times in the past week.   
  
“I do not place myself in _unnecessary_ harm, no more so than any other man here should.”   
  
Hamilton huffs, but offers no reply.   
  
They ride on, the only sounds being the soft nickers of horses, their hooves rustling through the underbrush, and the gentle murmurs of men as they traipse onwards, stumble over plants in the dark.   
  
Laurens glances down, removes one hand from the reins and rearranges his riband. It still feels unnatural, to have a piece of material marking his position so.   
  
He remains a volunteer aide, an extra, though now official, but Washington decreed that if he were to ride with Sullivan as representative of their office, he should be marked the part.   
  
And so, a green aide-de-camp riband decorates his chest; he appears the same as Hamilton, now, though he still lacks markers of commission.   
  
Hamilton has gleefully informed him that the riband makes him appear further alluring in looks, and Laurens has been overly aware of its presence ever since, of Hamilton’s watchful eyes on him when he wears such.   
  
It be rather distracting, and likely not at all conducive to productivity in the office, but he cannot help it.   
  
Dawn approaches as they reach Mount Airy, the soft teasing glow of its first light slowly beginning, though not yet quite here, and the road is enshrouded with heavy fog—must it follow them to battle always?—when the sound of a horse moving up besides Laurens’ position can be noticed, and a voice calls softly:  
  
“Sirs, General Sullivan should wish to know whether, with the pace slower than envisioned, His Excellency still intends—Oh! Laurens? Be that you?”   
  
Laurens startles, turns his head to the side.   
  
“White?”   
  
And indeed, it is John White, now Major John White it seems, a companion and friend Laurens made in his travels from England to America.  
  
On his other side, he can feel Hamilton’s gaze flick to White, wonders on his interest.   
  
“It is you!” White is saying. “I thought it were. How strange to find you again here, on such a day. And an aide-de-camp also, no less!”   
  
Laurens grins happily; it be nice to know what should have happened to White after their mutual arrival.   
  
“Indeed, Sir, and I see you similarly marked.”   
  
White smiles in reply. “Certainly; I serve General Sullivan in this capacity. But I see you have secured a place in General Washington’s office itself!”   
  
Laurens feels his smile shrink; though he be here on merit now, it were not how his position begun. “I have, Sir. I saw first action at Brandywine.”  
  
White seems somewhat surprised, at this. “Washington sent his aides into the field in that battle?”   
  
Laurens frowns. “Did you not also fight?”   
  
White tilts his head. “Indeed, but I should think all did under Sullivan on account of the flank attack, though not from the front lines.”   
  
Laurens only shrugs. “Washington has many aides, and I the least of them.”  
  
“I think that untrue,” Hamilton suddenly interjects heatedly. “But I should think you the most rash of us.”   
  
Laurens only sighs, and waves a hand in Hamilton’s direction. “White, let me introduce Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton, another of Washington’s aides, and a particular friend of mine.”   
  
“A very particular friend,” Hamilton agrees innocently, and Laurens should wish to kick him in the shin if they were not astride their horses.   
  
White pays this no mind, however, remarking instead: “Ah! So this be the famous Hamilton; I were tasked with reading many of your letters, Sir. You appear very—eloquent.”  
  
Eloquent spoken in this context perhaps seems to stand for _stubborn_ or _forceful_ , both likely true.  
  
Hamilton snorts. “When one may be so obstinate as Sullivan appeared, eloquence is necessary.”   
  
His similar use of _eloquence_ also appears a polite term, emphasised such as he speaks.  
  
Laurens coughs. “Yes. Well. What were you querying of us, White?”   
  
White blinks, shakes his head. “Ah, yes; I apologise. Sullivan were wondering on whether we ought still press onwards, when we are losing the cover of darkness quicker than anticipated, but I would think—”   
  
He is interrupted by the sudden loud eruption of musket fire, and shouts.   
  
“British pickets! British pickets!”   
  
Abruptly, all is noise and confusion, Captains are shouting orders, lines are forming, there are cries of _form up_ , of _prime and load_ , and Laurens scrambles to withdraw his pistol, Hamilton and White attempting similar, as another Captain cries, “Form the line!” and men hurry into position, though it be almost impossible to even see the British lines through the fog and dense trees, visibility not stretching very many yards, even with sunrise assisting.   
  
Someone yells _Fire_ and a barrage of shots whip through the dense air, Laurens’, White’s and Hamilton’s among them, though it nigh impossible to see if any may strike a target.   
  
“Sirs!” yells White over the frenzied noise of howls and screams, his horse rearing at a particularly loud _bang_. “One of you must return to Washington with news of this meeting!”   
  
Laurens and Hamilton exchange tense glances over the heads of milling soldiers, musket fire whizzing past near too close for comfort.   
  
“Laurens—” Hamilton begins, but Laurens shakes his head.   
  
“That be your task, Hamilton. I am assigned here.”   
  
Hamilton is shaking his head now, as Laurens makes to reload his pistol. “John, I would not—”   
  
“Go, Hamilton!” Laurens yells, as another volley of fire cuts between his objections. “I shall be fine, and you must attend to your duty.”   
  
With another unhappy glare, gaze begging that they may have a private moment of farewell, but likely resigned that this will not be the case, Hamilton wheels his horse around, shouts over his shoulder, “Be not unnecessarily reckless, Sir!” and gallops away, back down the column towards Washington.   
  
Such news as this should also be dispatched to the three other columns, headed by Generals Armstrong, Greene and Smallwood.   
  
Laurens feels the tight clenching around his heart lessen slightly as Hamilton rides off; he should be safe with Washington, kept out of the most of the fight.   
  
This is rather hypocritical, certainly, but Laurens does not care, so long as he may never have cause to fear on Hamilton again as he did during his false death at Schuylkill.   
  
His thoughts on this are interrupted by calls of “Press forward, press onwards!” and the American lines begin to move through the fog towards the British.   
  
White stays beside Laurens for a while, but as they both draw swords and come upon the enemy, the chaos forces them apart.   
  
Like at Brandywine, a strange calm settles over Laurens as the swath of redcoats dominate his vision; he feels nothing but the quiet pumping of his heart as he fires his pistol, then engages with sword, swiping down, metal meeting bone and flesh, jarring against his hand, blood spraying.   
  
A British officer astride a horse charges towards him, over broken bodies of blue, and Laurens finds himself scrambling to reload, aim up, fire, the ball managing to find a home in the officer’s abdomen as he reaches Laurens, sword glancing off his own and down as he topples.   
  
There is a heavy _boom_ and a whoosh of air that reverberates as though solid, before screams and cries erupt not a yard to Laurens’ left; through the haze he notices a gaping hole in the line, and realises the British have cannon.  
  
“Cannon!” he screams, “They have cannon!”   
  
“Form up!” an answering voice yells back in the fog. “Press forward!” and so Laurens can do nothing but that, cutting a line forwards with his sword, desperate that they should not be pushed back here, when they are still some miles from Germantown proper.  
  
After much fighting, surely near an hour by how heavy Laurens’ arm grows, it seems that perhaps they should prevail, that the British lines retreat in the fog, and they may press onwards after all.   
  
Laurens finds himself without a redcoat in front of him, hears shouts of “They retreat!” and sags in the saddle, wondering how long they truly have struggled here, and then—  
  
A strange numbness erupts in his right shoulder, his fingers jerking and going slack on his sword, as he grasps it with his left to stop it from falling, and then a burning sensation creeps across his shoulder and down, so that he gasps, grits his teeth, sheathes his sword shakily, and presses his left hand to his shoulder instinctively. When he lifts it away, and gazes upon his palm, he finds it wet with blood.   
  
He stares at the vivid red, warm and dripping against his skin, shocked.   
  
He is shot!  
  
The numbness begins to wear off and _damnation of all that lives and breathes_ but it hurts. He hisses, presses hand to it again once more; by some divine providence, there appears an exit wound, and it only a flesh wound, ball not still lodged inside.   
  
There are shouts echoing around him, orders to pursue the retreating British forces into Germantown, reinforcements from General Wayne upon them to aid, and he cannot worry on such a trivial wound any longer, he must press onwards also.   
  
Gritting his teeth, he uses his sword with his clumsy left hand, slits his aide-de-camp riband so that it falls into his lap in one long strip. He should not like to ruin something so new as this, but it be already bloodied by his wound anyhow.   
  
With clumsy fingers and teeth, through pants of pain, Laurens manages to get the riband wrapped around his wound, but cannot get it tied sufficiently tight. He wonders on what he might do, when—  
  
“Laurens!”   
  
Through the fog comes Fitzgerald, riding at pace, hailing him with desperate shouts. “The General wishes to know how goes this engagement, for Armstrong has met Hessians on Manatawny Road and is stilled, but—Dear God!” he pulls up beside Laurens, mouth slack. “You are shot!”   
  
Laurens can do nothing but speak through clenched teeth. “Aye, but it be not of significance. If you could assist me with this?” He indicates the destroyed riband he attempts to use to stem the blood-flow.   
  
Fitzgerald’s eyes are still wide. “Surely you must retire, such blood—”   
  
“I am well enough to continue,” Laurens snaps. “If you would.”   
  
Fitzgerald seems like to argue, but clamps his mouth shut, attending to the ends of the riband, pulling them tight so that Laurens cannot stop a cry.   
  
“Laurens—” Fitzgerald begins again, voice concerned.   
  
“Inform His Excellency that the British retreat here and we pursue them into Germantown proper.”   
  
Fitzgerald slumps, wipes the fingers stained with Laurens’ blood against his horse. “I shall do so, but I think you should not—”   
  
“Fitzgerald,” Laurens responds heatedly. “Worry not on me, but on the battle at large.”   
  
Fitzgerald sighs, appearing torn. “The General, nay, Hamilton also, should both kill me for leaving you so.”   
  
Laurens only wheels his horse after the rest of the pursuing American lines, shoulder throbbing nastily. “The British may deliver you a fatal blow first if you do not report our moves here to Washington.”   
  
Fitzgerald’s brows draw down, his expression unkeen. “I ride, then, but I find myself of unhappy countenance doing so. If you should feel at all faint, Laurens, retire! And that be an order, from an aide more senior to your position.”   
  
Laurens narrows his eyes, but nods, digs his heels into his horse and gallops away into the fog, leaving Fitzgerald’s displeased expression behind.   
  
He does not intend to feel at all faint, nor retire even if he should.

***

Laurens glares through the fog at the Chew House near Cliveden. He knows Washington meets now with the other aides and General Knox (as he be the Army’s artillery commander at present) in a hastily chosen war room, some miles back along the main road into Germantown.   
  
The redcoats within the house—close to a hundred in number—still fire muskets at any Continental man that steps too close, but are no longer in range to do much damage, as the Americans retreat and wait for orders on what they ought to do; press onwards and leave the house, or assault it direct somehow.   
  
The initial charge did no good, only causing American casualties, as the redcoats are holed up on the second floor, front door blocked and bolted, and the walls of near impenetrable stone.   
  
And so, they wait.   
  
Laurens has dismounted, stands with hand to shoulder, hissing between his teeth. The pain should irritate him more so than truly agonise; such an injury restricts him from performing in this fight to the best of his ability.   
  
The men around him are ones he does not know, yet he now feels alike to kin with them, as he consoled several after the loss of a friend in the initial assault on the Chew house, and helped bandage another, who redid Laurens’ own makeshift bandage in turn, as it had loosened in the charge.  
  
However, now he hears a voice he knows.   
  
“Laurens?”   
  
He turns, “White?” and feels relief wash over him. “Praise God, you have not fallen.”   
  
White seems likewise glad to spy Laurens, but then his expression shifts to that of worry. “You are wounded?”   
  
Laurens lifts his left hand, waves it dismissively. “Nay, only a little.”   
  
White’s eyebrows raise. “Such blood as decorates your palm should disagree. Are you stabbed or shot?”   
  
Laurens narrows his eyes. “I said I were well.”   
  
“Hmm.” White appears sceptical. “Stabbed or shot, Sir?”   
  
Laurens glares, cornered. “Shot.”   
  
White’s eyes widen. “Shot! And yet you have not retired from the field?”   
  
Laurens shakes his head. “It were in the fight at Mount Airy; if it were a significant injury I should not yet stand after such time as this, so I think it not.”   
  
White presses his lips together. “I must disagree, but cannot force your compliance in this. Have you had news from His Excellency? Only Sullivan wonders on the length of time wasted here.”   
  
Laurens finds he agrees with Sullivan; they waste valuable time on this house when they should be pushing the main assault on Germantown.   
  
“Unfortunately, no; last I heard from Fitzgerald—a fellow aide of Washington’s—they still deliberate some miles back.”   
  
Ironically, as he utters this, he hears hooves through the fog, and men around him shift to allow a rider, whose head twists through the haze, searching.   
  
“Laurens? John Laurens? Men, have you seen a man of the green riband? I require—”   
  
“I am here,” Laurens calls, holds up his good hand. “Here, Meade,” for he recognises Meade’s tone.  
  
Meade emerges from the fog, regarding Laurens from height. “Ah! So you are, and— _Damnation_.”  
  
Laurens raises an eyebrow. “Meade? Are you well?”   
  
Meade blinks, face unusually pale. “I am, Sir, but I doubt you be.”   
  
“As I said,” White exclaims.  
  
Laurens frowns at both of them in turn. “Have you our orders, Meade?”   
  
“Indeed, I do,” Meade replies. “Though I now wonder on the wisdom of them, having seen your state. I thought Fitzgerald exaggerates; now I find he speaks not forcefully enough.”   
  
“Our orders, Sir,” Laurens reiterates sternly. He tires on others speaking of his wound when he should know himself and his health well enough.   
  
Meade frowns, but his gaze flits to White, and his riband. “You are an aide of General Sullivan?”   
  
“Yes, Sir,” White replies.   
  
Meade appears to make a decision. “Very well. His Excellency has decided the majority of Sullivan and Wayne’s forces shall press onwards into Germantown.”   
  
White scrambles for paper and quill, writing furiously, as Meade continues: “General Maxwell’s reserve will move up and assist in assaulting the House, if a surrender is first rejected. If this be the case, General Knox shall also move in with cannon, as we can ill afford an enemy garrison at our back, us sandwiched between them and Howe’s main force as we press our attack.”   
  
“Indeed,” White agrees, mounting up. “I shall convey this with haste to Sullivan.”   
  
Meade nods.   
  
“And what of me?” Laurens queries. “Am I to move forward with Sullivan also?   
  
Meade’s eyes scrunch in disapproval. “Nay, you are ordered to remain and participate in Maxwell’s assault of the house. Though I now wonder—”   
  
“I shall stay, then,” Laurens confirms forcefully; he should not be compelled from the field now, not when there is more fight to be had.  
  
Meade’s face puckers as though he has swallowed something sour, usual jesting temperament completely absent. “I should say I think you rather foolish for this, but I cannot order you otherwise, and I find—I must respect you for it, somewhat.”   
  
Laurens grins wryly. “I would doubt you be truly surprised.”   
  
Meade appears to concede his partially feigned anger, rolls his eyes, small amusement stealing over his gaze. “Nay, not at all, for we all know how you should feel on battlefield glory, Laurens. Only—” he stops, and Laurens is puzzled.   
  
“Only?”   
  
Meade shrugs. “Only, do not think you shall not be missed if your glory turns fatal.”   
  
Laurens blinks; finds himself slightly surprised by the depth of Meade’s friendship. It seems that with his attention being caught by Hamilton’s all-encompassing affection, he has neglected to realise how much he may mean to the other aides, and they to him.   
  
“I will endeavour to remain basking in non-fatal glory, then, Sir.”   
  
Meade snorts. “Indeed. The jealousy of us other aides goes with you, I think.”   
  
Laurens grins slightly. “You all fare well so far?”   
  
Meade nods, wheels his horse around. “Yes, Sir, for none of us yet take the field. God bless, and stay safe; wound not yourself any further!”   
  
With this, he rides back off into the fog whence he came, and Laurens is immensely gladdened to know that Hamilton, of all of them, should remain far from any danger.

  
The unfortunate Lieutenant chosen to parlay for surrender is shot in the chest as he reaches the steps of the front door; he falls dead almost immediately, and it seems the redcoats do not see such as this an option.   
  
Knox rolls in with cannon then, but it merely bounces off the strong walls, effects no damage, and instead those around them fall under British musket fire, slicing through the air from the second floor.   
  
The smoke of cannon and muskets mingles with the fog once more to make visibility treacherous, and Laurens finds himself filled with that same need to _move_ to _fight_ else he go near mad with the feeling.  
  
To his left, another cannon bounces off the walls, barely effecting a crack; three men hiding behind a tree on the lawn step out and fire pistols, one is hit in the throat by returned fire and falls immediately, before Laurens can even attempt a rescue.   
  
He thinks to step out from the tree behind which he waits, loads up, is bringing pistol shakily level with his non-dominant arm, when he is grasped from behind over his wound, and cries out, vision going momentarily spotty.   
  
“My sincerest apologies,” he hears White speak loudly behind him, over the noise of the shots and cannon; he has stayed with the small number of Sullivan’s men who remain. “I did not mean—you mustn’t step forward, else be shot, and worse than you have already been.”   
  
Laurens cannot take this. He feels both jittery and vague, as though his patience and reason joins his blood in draining from the wound and away.   
  
“We cannot just stand here whilst Knox effects no damage, and know this garrison as a threat to our forces!”   
  
“And what should you do?” White replies hotly, pausing to fire his pistol rapidly, then retreat once more to reload. “If a cannon is as nothing, one man should not change anything here.”   
  
Ah, and that is likely true, but this is maddening, and if Laurens should charge and fall, at least then he would be engaging in _some_ action, rather than this awful stalemate.   
  
“I cannot bear to stand idly by!” he finally retorts, clenching his jaw as his shoulder begins an incessant throb, as though it too should require swift action, before more blood be lost.   
  
“ _Laurens_ ,” begins White, but he be interrupted by another voice Laurens’ knows not.   
  
“I am in complete agreement, Sir, for _je pense que tu es un homme d'action_ , as me, _oui_?”   
  
White whips around as another man approaches behind him; clearly French, as Lafayette.   
  
“ _Oui_ ,” Laurens responds. “I should very much prefer action over such cowering.”   
  
According to the single golden epaulette he wears, this man is a Captain; Laurens wracks his mind for mention of a French Captain amongst Maxwell or Sullivan’s artillery men, and the name Thomas-Antoine Mauduit Du Plessis settles across his frenzied thoughts.   
  
“Du Plessis?” he asks, finds he must repeat when cannon overshadows his voice.   
  
“ _Oui_ ,” the man—Du Plessis—responds. “And if you a man of action, Laurens, I have _une idée_ that may force the assault here.”   
  
“Where cannon does nothing?” White questions sceptically. “How should we manage that, Captain?”   
  
“Ah, but cannon assaults the walls; we should assault the door.”   
  
White frowns. “We cannot do so without entering range of their muskets; any idea as this is doomed to end in death before it should achieve any success.”   
  
“ _Non_ ,” asserts Du Plessis. “We cannot force our way in, so, we force them out, _tu comprends_?”   
  
Laurens finds himself mightily intrigued. “Go on, Sir.”   
  
Du Plessis grins. “There is a stable behind the house, _oui_? If we but collect straw and set it alight against the front door, perhaps in through the windows _aussi_ , then they should be forced out, else they be smoked out, or _brûlé vif_.”   
  
“ _Brûlé vif_?” asks White, clearly not so versed in French as Laurens.   
  
“Burned alive,” he translates softly. “ _Oui_ , I see how this should work.”   
  
White frowns. “It seems a large risk for such uncertain reward.”   
  
“There should be no reward at all if we take no risk, _non_?” Du Plessis counters fiercely.   
  
“I should agree,” Laurens responds. “We must at least try.”   
  
White still appears rather unsure, but also does not seem like to abandon Du Plessis and Laurens entirely to their mad plan.   
  
For it is rather mad, Laurens supposes, and likely not at all within the bounds of _not acting unnecessarily reckless_ as Hamilton so instructed him, but what is battle, truly, without recklessness?   
  
It must sometimes be called for.   
  
And so, using the kitchen outhouse as cover, Laurens and Du Plessis sneak round the side of the house, ensuring to keep solid cover between them and the redcoats whom they besiege, ducking under the fire of British and American alike. White, meanwhile, hangs back a little, as he attempts to create some kind of torch than can be lit and used to create such flame as this plan requires.   
  
The stable appears eerily empty of animals, but filled with many bales of hay, a fact Du Plessis seems mightily cheered about. He starts to pull bales apart, make them more manageable to carry, gathers what he can.   
  
He turns to Laurens, eyes flitting to his blood soaked shoulder. “I did not realise you wounded, _Monsieur_ ; shall I call for _ton ami_ instead?”   
  
“ _Non_ ,” Laurens replies shortly. “I am well enough for this.” To prove his point, he stoops to gather as much straw as he is able, ignoring the sharp aching pain that should vibrate down his arm, setting nerves aflame.   
  
Du Plessis’ expression is set determinedly, he only nods. “And now, we move swift! _Allons-y_! ”   
  
The two of them race out of the stable, ducking and swerving behind trees, through musket fire; Laurens vaguely hears someone call out to them, but ignores such as they move carefully round to the front of the house, backs pressed to stone wall.   
  
Laurens sincerely hopes he should not be shot by their own forces.   
  
Du Plessis shoves his hay bale hard against the door, gestures for Laurens to toss his; he does so.   
  
Behind him, he hears a loud _Laurens_ and turns to see White, also with more hay, and a lit torch. He scrambles to grasp White’s bale, grits teeth as his vision swims, and throws the hay at Du Plessis, who has created quite the straw barricade against the front door.   
  
“Here!” White cries, near throwing the torch at Laurens, who grasps it left-handedly and bends in attempt to set their barrier aflame.   
  
Window shutters near to Du Plessis’ head burst open, and he almost trips with alarm as a British soldier’s face peers out, pistol held high.   
  
“Sirs!” he cries, “What do you attempt here?”   
  
Du Plessis has recovered his composure, only grins cheekily. “Why, I am merely taking a walk!”   
  
The hay smokes, small flames dancing. “It is lit!” Laurens cries triumphantly.   
  
There is a pistol shot, and the British soldier slumps, but the shot comes from inside the house; an accident or misfire.   
  
Du Plessis jumps back. “If it is lit, we must away!”   
  
Laurens agrees, goes to take a step, feels everything in his sight bend and shift; a crack appears in the shutters nearest him and before he can take proper notice—  
  
“Ah!” Laurens cries out involuntarily. A bayonet thrusts out through the crack and takes him in the side; it feels not a deep wound, more a shallow cut or graze, but the shock of it, and the twist he should attempt in order to move from it, aggravates his shoulder, and he finds his knees giving out.   
  
“Laurens!” A stern hand is upon his good shoulder. “You fool; and you say this wound insignificant!”   
  
White, thank God, assists him as they race back to the safety of the American lines, but then—  
  
Laurens feels hot blood splash across his face, the support of White suddenly vanishing, and he falls to his knees, searching, scrambling, where is White, where is White, _where is White_ —  
  
A yard to his right, beneath the fog and smoke, White has collapsed into the grass, making such awful gurgling sounds as to likely haunt Laurens’ nightmares evermore.   
  
Thick blood is flowing from the ruined hole that were the base of his throat, just above collarbone, and Laurens should know it immediately a fatal wound, but—  
  
“No, White, no, you cannot, you must not—! Please!”  
  
Laurens presses desperate hands to the wound, ignores the stabbing pain of his own shoulder, screams for assistance, for help, for _anyone_ , and all the while White’s blood bubbles up beneath his fingertips, and his mouth works soundlessly, fingers scrabbling against the gore soaked ground.   
  
His eyes meet Laurens’, and they appear unseeing, unrecognising any, panicked and pained, and Laurens screams for aid such that it rips at his throat, but then White gasps once, twice, thin and whistling, he seizes under Laurens’ palms, and then lies still, air lost, eyes blank.   
  
“ _No_ ,” shouts Laurens, “Dear God, White, _no_ ,” and then suddenly, he is pummelled with the pain of his own wound, and the shock of this, and all grows hazy, and he hears Du Plessis cry, “ _Non_ , Laurens, not you also _, je t'en prie, non_!” and he thinks—  
 _  
Hamilton should kill me if this be my end_   
  
—and all he wishes is to hold Hamilton one last time, to kiss him, to speak to him of what care he may truly hold for him, and then his face meets grass, and all is black.

  
Laurens later vaguely recalls screaming that he ought not leave White where he lays, being forced from the field by Du Plessis, into a cart of wounded, jostled for miles through fog and the sound of musket fire, before being hauled bodily upright, soldiers cursing at his blood loss induced confusion and his high position in Washington’s ranks when they realise it.   
  
He thinks he hears the sound of Hamilton’s frantic tone as he is pushed onto a cot, but then a surgeon should press at his wound, and he shouts, coherent memory and will yielding to insentience in the face of such pain.   
  
From this, when blackness first retreats and gives way to a seeping, vague awareness, Laurens finds himself in a strange and terrible sort of twilight world, one in which he both exists and also does not, one where his limbs may not work, his tongue may not speak, his lungs should gasp desperately for air, his eyes should see nothing but blinding white flashes and agonizing red aches.   
  
Where a demon like creature of flame and darkness should prod at his shoulder with iron tongs, proclaim wounds clean, and stitch with string that feels created of heated, sharpened claws.   
  
He moans, and cries, but cannot scream words through such pain, and a creature made more of heaven should placate and sooth, its touch smooth and cold, its gentle voice both reassuring and begging him in intervals—  
 _  
You are alive, stay alive, you are alive, stay alive!  
_  
And somewhere in his fevered mind he should know himself wounded, but how, and why, and where, these things escape him, and he is too hot, too cold, too much and not enough, and then he is extinguished, floating only in a black haze of thoughts and dreams; he remembers no one and nothing at all, sleep or oblivion finally claiming his soul.

***

_Continental Army Encampment  
Near Pennypacker Mills   
October 8th – 10th 1777_

When Laurens manages to regain lucidity, wrestling his mind back from fevered imaginings and his body back from chills and shakes, he finds himself lying in a tent once more, staring up at canvas, limbs sore and stiff, shoulder aching, but nowhere near as much as before.   
  
He is momentarily disorientated, before recalling Germantown, and that he were injured in the battle there. He wonders wearily on how long he may have lain insensible, and hopes it not overly prolonged.  
  
He sighs, attempts to sit, but gives up when his bandaged shoulder should protest at such movement.   
  
Then:   
  
“Laurens! Oh, praise God, you are awake!”   
  
Laurens turns his head, realises that Hamilton sits on a cot across from him writing on his travel desk, seeming to share the tent again.   
  
“I am,” he croaks, voice rusty with disuse.   
  
Hamilton’s expression appears exceedingly strained, dark circles under his eyes, and Laurens hopes these things do not stem from worrying on him.   
  
Hamilton immediately places his desk down, rises stiffly, and moves to stand before Laurens’ cot, gazing down tiredly.   
  
Laurens stares up at him, searches his eyes, but they are carefully blank, offer no hints to how Hamilton may feel.   
  
“How long have I slept?”   
  
“Slept,” huffs Hamilton, crossing his arms. His entire countenance screams _weary_. “I think sleeping should be too gentle a word for the state you were in.”   
  
Laurens frowns, manages to push up using his left elbow slightly, feels a slight _pull_ in his side where the bayonet graze occurred. “How long, Sir?” he insists.   
  
Hamilton only narrows his eyes. “Four days since Germantown; you have shaken and sweated with chills near the entire time, but for when the fever broke last night.”  
  
Laurens stares. “Four days? It were not so great a wound as to cause such surely.”   
  
Hamilton’s face only creases into a glare, eyes flashing dangerously. “It should not have been, but that you were determined not to retire, and attempted reckless plans at Cliveden, and so it were that infection set in.”   
  
“Ah.” Laurens looks down. He can sense Hamilton’s displeasure and knows not what he should say to abate it, for he shall not apologise on actions he thought necessary.   
  
Hamilton only makes a noise of anger under his breath and shoves a paper at Laurens. “Washington thought your actions heroic, even if the house did not burn after all.”   
  
The paper is a crumpled version of the General Orders from two days past. It declares:   
_  
John Laurens Esqr: appointed on the 6th of September extra-Aide-de-Camp to the Commander in Chief, is now appointed Aide-de-Camp to him, and is to be respected and obeyed as such_.   
  
Laurens blinks, cannot summon much cheer at this, but raises his eyebrows. “I am no longer an extra?”   
  
“No,” snorts Hamilton, snatches the paper back. “You are not; though I dislike such as it should seem to reward you for your foolishness.”   
  
“ _Hamilton_ ,” begins Laurens, feels annoyance rising. “There be no use worrying at such now, for it is done, and I am fine.”   
  
“Fine!” explodes Hamilton. “ _Fine_? Fine you say, Sir? Aye, yes, you are fine now, certainly, after I worried and feared on your health, on your _life_ , these past few days! I sat here and watched, John, as you shook and cried out, your wound festering, and I prayed—I never pray!—and yet I did so, I prayed near every moment I could, that God might spare your life, that God might not take you from me!”   
  
Hamilton has gone extremely pale, his body shaking ever so slightly in his upset, and Laurens should feel broken, and guilty, and heartsore. “Hamilton, I am sorry, I did not intend—”  
  
“Did not intend, Sir?” Hamilton’s voice grows more irate by the second, but it is thick with concern, and heavy fear, which should make its enraged tone all the more terrible. “It matters not what you intend if you are dead, your body cold in the ground, and I left here, alone!”   
  
“Hamilton—”   
  
“No, John!” Hamilton turns his face away, swipes an angry hand over it, and Laurens thinks perhaps he wipes away tears, which stabs into his soul and slashes at his heart even further.  
  
Hamilton turns back to Laurens, points a shaking, accusing finger, “I promised not to leave you, did I not? Perhaps it were _you_ that I should have been securing promises from!”   
  
“Alexander,” Laurens tries quietly, attempting to cut through the terror soaked tone. “ _Alexander_.”   
  
Suddenly, Hamilton drops to his knees beside Laurens’ cot, rests his forehead against the canvas bedding, shoulders slumped, almost as though grieving, though Laurens yet lives.   
  
“I thought,” he whispers, voice muffled. “I thought I should never hear you speak my name such as that again.”   
  
Laurens goes completely cold at this, breath frozen, must clench his jaw to arrest his own tears. He places his left hand on Hamilton’s head, fingers winding in his hair, and Hamilton sighs softly, pushing his head against Laurens’ palm, as though to make sure he truly still moves, still breathes.   
  
“I am sorry, Alexander,” Laurens murmurs gently. “I am so, so sorry.”   
  
Hamilton makes a noise rather like a whimper, and Laurens removes his hand, instead slowly pushes it under Hamilton’s jaw, lifts it so that Hamilton raises his head and meets his eyes through swollen gaze.   
  
“I should not leave you, Alexander,” Laurens reiterates strongly. “I should _never_ leave you.”   
  
Hamilton’s face crumples, and he surges forward, connecting their mouths in what may be the most desperate kiss they have yet shared.   
  
He kisses Laurens hungrily, roughly, almost _painfully_ , in a manner that should impart him to never do such again, to never threaten death again; his hand goes to the back of Laurens’ neck, pulls _hard_ in his hair, as though entreating a promise, and Laurens gasps at the insistent, possessive touch; Hamilton climbs up on the cot, settles his entire weight over Laurens, his other hand snaking up Laurens’ side, and Laurens suddenly realises he _wears no shirt_.   
  
The shock of Hamilton’s cold hand against his stomach causes him to disconnect their mouths, stare up at Hamilton, who perches over him with reddened cheeks and muffled hair. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, and he appears a vision that Laurens should not feel he deserves.   
  
“You are truly beautiful, Alexander,” he murmurs, almost unintentionally, and Hamilton flushes pretty pink right to his hair line.   
  
“Do not think such compliments as this should dissuade my anger at you, John,” he mumbles in reply, but does still appear rather pleased. He traces a hand lazily up and down Laurens’ bare chest, over ribs, carefully avoiding the bandage, and Laurens feels pleasant heat building. He lies back slowly, catches Hamilton’s wandering hand with his good one.   
  
Hamilton smiles softly down at him, shifts slightly where he sits over Laurens, and should press in just the exact wrong manner, or perhaps the exact _right_ manner, as Laurens cannot contain a very quiet moan at the friction.   
  
Hamilton stills immediately, smirking. “I think perhaps we may be quartered too close to others at present for such as this.”   
  
Laurens flushes bright red at the insinuation, but manages to choke out: “I think myself rather too wounded to participate in such anyhow.”   
  
Hamilton hums, smirk growing as he leans down, presses a sloppy, open mouthed kiss against Laurens’ neck, bites down less playfully than he usually might; it will most certainly bruise, and Laurens feels a strange sort of desire and longing that he be marked so.   
  
“Do you see now why you must take care to ensure you survive, John?” Hamilton mouths into warm skin.  
  
Laurens writhes slightly under such ministrations, tightness in his breeches increasing.   
  
“Alexander,” he warns. “My dear, I think you ought to cease such if we be truly quartered close to others.”  
  
Hamilton makes an odd strangled noise, and draws back, gaze meeting Laurens’ searchingly. “My dear?”   
  
Laurens freezes, only then realising the fond endearment he has allowed to slip out. “Hamilton, I only—”   
  
Hamilton slowly climbs off Laurens, settles close beside him on the edge of the cot instead.   
  
“Laurens, you must cease on fearing that I should only wish lustful action from you. If my worrying on your welfare as this, and my being so insistent it is I that should nurse you in your ill-health these past days, be no clear indication of how I should feel, then I know not what else I might say to convince you so.”  
  
Laurens can only stare wordlessly, heart beating fast. Can it really be true they have only been known to one another these past three months? He should feel he has cared for Hamilton a lifetime.  
  
“Hamilton—”   
  
Hamilton takes his coat off now, lies down beside him, so that they share quiet breaths. “If I should call you by _dear Laurens_ will that convince you?” He lowers his voice, snakes an arm over Laurens’ waist under the blanket. “If I should call you _beloved_ or _sweet_ , will that convince you? If I say you are _my Laurens, my John_ , should that tell you what I must feel?”   
  
Laurens breathes sharper and sharper, his tense posture causing his shoulder pain, but unable to break himself from such fearful stillness. “Alexander—”   
  
Hamilton brings a hand to Laurens’ lips, places a single finger over them. “Hush. Cease your protestations on this, John, for I will not hear them. I care for you, deeply, as I have said. Do you believe such?” He lifts his finger from Laurens’ lips.  
  
“Hamilton—”   
  
“Do you?” Hamilton demands. “Do you truly?”   
  
And yes, of course Laurens does, of course, can see the truth of it in every gaze Hamilton bestows upon him, but he is still so afraid of what such affection should mean for them, in all this, and these feelings seem too deep, too wide, too all encompassing, and he should be terrified, he _is_ terrified, and yet—  
  
“I believe you, my Alexander.”   
  
Hamilton stills completely, at this.   
  
Laurens closes his eyes, sighs, whispers, “I should hope you know I feel the same care towards you.”   
  
He feels Hamilton’s lips upon his softly, pressing a gentle, reassuring kiss, before he rests his head upon Laurens’ chest, careful to avoid his wound.   
  
Laurens finds himself drifting to sleep once more, fingers tangled in Hamilton’s hair, surrounded by Hamilton’s warm body, his soft breath soothing against his bare skin.

  
When Laurens next wakes, the light seems far dimmer, but he knows not whether it be later that same day, or the next—either way, Hamilton’s weight on his chest is gone, and he should not miss it so profoundly, yet he does.  
  
He blearily reaches an arm out of the blankets, glances across the tent, and blinks in shock, for it is not Hamilton that occupies the cot across from him writing, but Meade.   
  
He finds himself thoroughly confused. “Meade? Have we moved once more?”   
  
Meade’s eyes shoot up from the page he works on, a true smile stretching across his face. “Laurens! Hamilton said you awoke yesterday morn, but I am much relieved to witness this myself.”   
  
Yesterday morn. So, he has slept long, but not so long as before.   
  
“Indeed; I seem truly past the fever.”   
  
Meade nods, places writing desk down beside him. “Thank the Lord; you have worried us all very much, Sir.”   
  
Laurens makes a face. “Truly, it were not my intention. I did not judge it a wound like to cause this.”   
  
“Clearly not,” Meade retorts. “Nor I, else I should have forced you from the field when I gave you your orders.” He makes a face. “You should have seen how the General and Hamilton railed at Fitzgerald and I for allowing you to have continued so, when you were struggling in the depths of your fever.”   
  
Meade glares at Laurens, but it appears mostly in jest. “No matter that you a grown man, and I not your keeper.” He shrugs. “You certainly cement yourself one of equal parts bravery and recklessness, I think; did you know yourself promoted?”   
  
Laurens smiles wearily. “I do know, and I apologise, Meade. Had I known I would have caused such trouble as this, I should have retired.”   
  
Meade snorts, but not unkindly. “I think you would not have, but what do I know?” He huffs a laugh. “Perhaps I ought to follow you wherever you may go, so I am thus protected from Hamilton’s ire.”   
  
He regards Laurens thoughtfully. “I know not how, but I think you have created a dear brother of him, though he should usually shirk such close ties.”   
  
Laurens only presses his lips together. Meade is not wrong exactly, but— _definitely not a brother!  
_  
“I am sorry to have worried all so.”  
  
“Ah,” Meade shrugs again. “Well. War should always cause worry, and the truth of the matter is that a miracle should have occurred if this worry be the least that is caused by one of us.”   
  
Unfortunately, that is likely true, Laurens supposes, then realises something Hamilton spoke of earlier—  
  
“The assault on the Chew House failed?”   
  
Meade blinks, clearly surprised by the abrupt subject change. “Has Hamilton not told you of this?”   
  
Laurens shakes his head, pushes up to sitting, and is pleased he be able to do so with less pain and stiffness. “No, Sir; I were not awake long.”  
  
Meade sighs. “Indeed, it failed. In truth, Germantown were a loss.”   
  
“The battle was a loss?” Laurens finds himself amazed. “How could this be so?”   
  
Meade only shakes his head. “With so much ammunition wasted in reaching Germantown, Sullivan ran low and was forced back anyhow. Wayne were also cut off and forced back; Greene managed to get further, but in the fog one of his divisions under Stephen became disorientated and fired upon Wayne’s, and his on them.” Meade makes a face. “After such as this, Washington ordered Armstrong and Smallwood retreat also. The British pursued us for a time, but Greene’s infantry saw them off in the end.”   
  
Laurens stares. “Our men _fired_ upon each other?”   
  
“Indeed.” Meade huffs a laugh, shakes his head. “Truly, it be not amusing I know, but it does seem rather absurd, does it not?”   
  
Laurens presses a hand to his wounded shoulder, feels much dejected. “And so, it seems the British triumph over us once more.”   
  
Meade hums. “Ah, yes. Unfortunately, that be true. However, I should think we come out of this better than we did the last battle; we were the aggressor, and it were a complicated strategic plan. The British have also now twice failed to build upon their triumph and vanquish us entirely; I should think there be plenty fight left yet.”   
  
This may lift spirits a little, but only a little.   
  
Laurens glances around the tent. “Are you quartered here?”   
  
Meade laughs properly, at this. “Nay; this be Hamilton’s cot, but he is called away on business by the General. He has not allowed you left alone this entire time; one of us each has watched when he is unable.”   
  
Laurens feels embarrassed to hear such. He coughs. “Surely that were unnecessary, Sir.”   
  
Meade only smiles. “Hamilton thought not. In any case, Washington were asking on your condition near every hour, so it were made easier if one of us stayed here anyhow.”  
  
Laurens cringes. “The General were so worried as that?”  
  
Meade glances at him sideways, quickly. “He were; I also think he were worrying on what he may tell your father should you have perished in an aide position not meant to cause such danger.”  
  
“Ah,” Laurens replies flatly. “Of course.” Then: “I hope none have informed my father?”   
  
This hope is proved empty, it seems, when Meade shrugs apologetically. “I am afraid he were notified soon after we managed to arrive back at camp.”  
  
“ _Damn_ ,” mutters Laurens under his breath, and Meade chuckles.   
  
“I am sure you shall be well enough to write him soon.”   
  
“I should never be well enough,” Laurens retorts, and Meade huffs in amusement, then stands.   
  
“I shall fetch you a repast, I think? For you have not eaten near five days now.”   
  
Laurens realises the truth of this, and finds himself surprisingly hungry. “Indeed, that should be very much appreciated.”

  
However, it is not Meade that returns with his meal, but Tilghman and Hamilton; it appears true all the aides were worried over his health, and Tilghman should like to witness his recovery himself.   
  
He stays a while, speaking of inconsequential things, jesting on how much translation work he must complete in Laurens’ absence, as Laurens eats slowly, conscience of Hamilton’s concerned gaze the entire time.   
  
Eventually Tilghman retires to his own tent, and Laurens is left solely in Hamilton’s company once more.   
  
“White,” Laurens suddenly recollects, feels awfully dismayed at this remembrance, and guilty it has not occurred to him previous.   
  
“Pardon?” queries Hamilton, from where he continues to write up a frenzy in the dim candlelight.   
  
“White,” Laurens repeats miserably. “John White, you recall?”   
  
Hamilton frowns, red hair shining in the flickering flame. “Sullivan’s aide? Your apparent friend?”   
  
Laurens nods, presses fingers to his eyes. “He is dead.”   
  
Hamilton stands abruptly, comes to perch on Laurens’ cot as he did before. “He is? How so; when?”   
  
Laurens worries at the edge of the blanket. “At the Chew House. He were assisting in the plan to set fire to the place, when he—he were shot in the neck.” He looks at Hamilton hopelessly. “Such blood I have never seen; no matter how hard I pressed, more should appear between my fingers.”  
  
Hamilton sighs. “Perhaps that be why you appeared so bloodstained when first I beheld you after the battle.”  
  
“Perhaps,” Laurens whispers. “It sprayed across my face, it soaked my hands, and the noise he made, Alexander, _the noise_ —” He finds himself unable to continue, finds himself shaking, sees White’s gasping mouth before his eyes, remembers the panicked helplessness, that a man’s life should drain out before him, and him able to do nothing to prevent it.   
  
“Laurens,” he realises Hamilton is murmuring. “ _John_.” His arms are carefully encircling Laurens, tracing reassuring patterns into his skin. “John, you are safe, you are here, I have you.”   
  
Laurens squeezes his eyes shut. “But he is not, Hamilton. He is not.”   
  
“No,” whispers Hamilton. “And I cannot make him so.”   
  
Laurens gasps, manages to avoid a sob. “No.”   
  
“No,” repeats Hamilton. “But I am here, and you are here, and we should both have that at least.”  
  
Laurens can only nod tiredly; if he should not have agreed to Du Plessis’ plan, which came to nothing anyhow, then White would yet remain here, breathing, thinking, _living_.  
  
He feels Hamilton sigh again. “I think perhaps we ought to retire? I know myself tired, and I should think further sleep shall do you good.”   
  
Laurens manages to conjure up a shaky smile, though feels none of the happiness that should accompany such an expression. “Is the great Hamilton truly admitting fatigue?”   
  
Hamilton snorts, withdraws his arms from around Laurens. “I only admit to such as I were unable to sleep, when I thought you may not live to greet the sun each morn.”   
  
Laurens slumps, catches Hamilton’s hand with his left, and squeezes. “I am sorry, Hamilton, I am truly sorry.”   
  
“I know this,” Hamilton says softly. “I know.”   
  
Laurens rests his head against Hamilton’s shoulder; he may, at least, allow himself some of this sinful affection if it should comfort Hamilton also.   
  
“Shall I promise never to do such again?”   
  
He feels a slight vibration through shirt and skin against his cheek as Hamilton chuckles sadly. “I find I should remind you of what you said to me, when I were in such a position: do not make promises you cannot keep, John.”   
  
Laurens tilts his head and kisses Hamilton’s neck softly. Hamilton hisses between his teeth, reaches out and runs a hand down Laurens back.   
  
Laurens shivers, though not at all from cold. “I will not, then. But I—” he pauses, thinks on how best to word what he finds he must now say. “But I find that if such affection as we share may bring some kind of comfort in these battles that we fight, despite this fear of loss, then perhaps I should think you right in your opinion.”   
  
Hamilton stills completely. “You agree we should continue this? Truly?”   
  
Laurens breathes deep; pain spikes in his shoulder, but he ignores it. He fears to speak these words of agreement; it being the last barrier between any pretence that he should not feel these sinful things, should not wish of Hamilton what should be wanted from a woman.   
  
“I—Yes, Alexander. I agree.”   
  
Hamilton breathes in sharp. “John—”   
  
Laurens lifts his head from its place on Hamilton’s shoulder. “But we are to be so, so careful, you understand? For we both know the consequences of carrying out such relations as these. If it should become too risky, it must cease. You agree?” He stares into Hamilton’s eyes, where flames dance, both reflected from the lit candle, and conjured by Hamilton’s own fiery soul.   
  
Hamilton’s eyes narrow. “If that be what you wish.”   
  
“It is.”   
  
Hamilton hums—it sounds a rather unhappy sound—but acquiesces. “Alright, John. I agree to such.”   
  
Laurens feels a strange pit inside him open wide, dominate his mind, his very soul, this pit that holds all such fears and wants and affections tied to the name _Alexander Hamilton_.   
  
A heavy feeling of fate settles over him, as though he has chosen one path now that cannot be undone, one where perhaps ruin and despair should lie at its end, and yet cannot find enough will within himself to regret it.   
  
He goes to lie down again, already tired, and Hamilton shifts over, disrobes coat and vest.   
  
Laurens stares. “You are not going to sleep here? What if someone were to walk in and wonder why you leave your own cot empty?”   
  
Hamilton only grins wide. “Let them wonder, but in any case, none should enter our tent before I wake; you know my temperament one like to rise with the sun.”   
  
Laurens cannot stop a fond smile. “I suppose that true.”   
  
“ _Certainement_ ,” Hamilton nods. “So, arrange yourself how best suits your wound and I shall adjust.”   
  
Laurens does so, finding himself watching Hamilton with wonder as he prepares to truly, properly, privately share a bed with him for the first time.   
  
He wishes it were not when he be injured so, for all such sinful actions that he might like to undertake otherwise.  
  
Hamilton leans out of the cot slightly to snuff the candle, and Laurens finds his good arm rising, catching a shining lock of Hamilton’s hair between his fingers.   
  
Hamilton smiles down, worry and exhaustion turned to fondness, and an expression Laurens cannot yet recognise, give name too.   
  
“Sleep now, Laurens, and heal.”  
  
“Aye,” whispers Laurens, as the tent is plunged into darkness.   
  
He feels Hamilton arrange himself against his side, the smaller man squashed between him and the side of the cot, fingers softly tracing the skin over Laurens’ ribs, trailing down his side.   
  
As he finds sleep claiming him once more, he feels Hamilton press feather light kisses to his forehead, his nose, his cheek, his mouth, feels him breathe against his neck, “Sleep well, my dear Laurens,” and feels himself falling into just that, the scent of Hamilton’s hair following him into restful dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for all the *angst* but also not really because it's so fun to write lol
> 
> Funnily enough, Du Plessis really did apparently respond with “I’m merely taking a walk” when questioned by an irate British soldier :D
> 
> There seems to be some debate on what Laurens’ second, lesser wound at Germantown was from, bayonet or spent musket ball, and where he was wounded, so? I went with what I wanted in the moment :)
> 
> Also, I think I might have exaggerated how unwell Laurens was post his wounding, but the opportunity for angst and fluff was too good to pass up ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading and have a great week!
> 
> Excerpt from:   
> -“General Orders, 6 October 1777” https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/03-11-02-0425
> 
> French translations:   
> -Je pense que tu es un homme d'action: I think you are a man of action   
> -Une idée: An idea  
> -Aussi: Also  
> -Ton ami: Your friend  
> -Allons-y: Let’s go  
> \- Je t'en prie, non!: Please, no!/please do not!


	9. A Departure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Hope you’re doing well :) 
> 
> I’ve got something on this evening, so enjoy an update that is a couple hours earlier than usual XD 
> 
> This chapter gave me no end of trouble and I still have no idea why! It took soooo long to write (and even with edits it’s very long!—think 10k+) so hopefully you enjoy it <3

_Peter Wentz Farmstead  
Worcester Township   
October 18th – 21st 1777_

Laurens grits his teeth and moves his shoulder back and forth slowly, presses a hand lightly to it, feels the bandage shift slightly under his shirt, coat discarded over his chair for now.   
  
It be now two weeks since his unfortunate injuries at Germantown, and though they gradually heal—bayonet graze all but non-existent—the musket wound still pains him, particularly after a full day of correspondence work.   
  
It is of great annoyance that this injury should have occurred to his right shoulder, when this the most importance arm for an aide-de-camp.   
  
He works far slower than he did previous, and even now, he has only been returned to his work a week past. This, as it took several days after his first awakening from fever to convince Harrison, and the General, he were well enough to recommence his duties—and Hamilton remains unconvinced, it seems, if the glares he sends Laurens whenever Laurens may cringe be of any indication.   
  
His slower speed owes to the fact he attempts to write without moving his shoulder over much, though it must not be kept entirely still, else it lose its full range of movement in its healing. This same slow speed means he is now the last of the aides awake, as midnight approaches—or at least, the last aide in the office, at present moment set up in the beautiful farmstead of a Mr Wentz. Hamilton has not been sighted heading to bed as of yet, of course, but nor has he been sighted in the office since noon, or thereabouts.  
  
Laurens returns his unwilling gaze to the correspondence laid out before him under candlelight. He has finally finished all such translations, general orders, reports on injured, wounded, or ill men, and the like, and now all that remains are those which he has been greatly putting off. He could yet retire to bed and resume such tomorrow, but the prospect of changing his bandage seems even worse than this, and they cannot be put off forever.   
  
His father writes him, concerned of course—though they may not often agree, he should still be his eldest son and heir—both to hear of White’s death, and Laurens’ own wounding.

— _No man can doubt of your bravery; your own good sense will point out the distinction between genuine courage and temerity, nor need I tell you that it is as much your duty to preserve your own health and strength as it is to destroy the enemy—_

Laurens sighs, reads these lines over once more. He is not sure how best to answer his father in this, for he should disagree heartily—and Henry Laurens already knows such. This being why Laurens has yet to reply, for what should he say?   
_  
On the contrary, I believe it my duty to sacrifice my health if it be what may destroy the enemy?_  
  
This should hardly reassure his father, but he cannot write to him with untruths. Perhaps it better not to answer such at all, and merely write that he heals well, and thanks his father for his concern.   
  
Another piece of correspondence, writ and sent later (dated to the sixteenth) but also, as of yet, unanswered—though as it were received only today, this might be forgiven easier—breeds concern as well, though of an entirely different kind.   
  
Henry Laurens writes that he has heard talk in Congress of the undisciplined state of the Continental Army and that, whilst he abhors such loose talk and telling tales of such, he believes there some unfortunate truth in it.   
  
This worries Laurens, for he should not like to hear of talk against what Washington attempts to achieve with, it must be said, very little proper assistance from Congress, and also, he fears his father may be right in his assessment—the army does lack discipline somewhat, and desertions become an even greater problem as each day passes.   
  
Laurens supposes he shall have to inform the General of his father’s thoughts; this being, of course, the main reason he were engaged in an aide’s position, and though he has proven his own merit now, he still ought to pass such anxieties on.  
  
With another, heavier sigh, Laurens decides his mind too tired for a proper reply, and though he knows postponing it further shall likely haunt him tomorrow, he cannot force himself to it.   
  
Instead, he brings out a blank paper, and stares down at it.   
  
He has meant to attempt this several times, when he has been in possession of a free, private moment, but nerves, or fears of inadequacy, have previously stayed his hand. Also, memories, of others he has drawn, now lost, and of regretted actions undertaken post such losses.  
  
Still, Hamilton were not at fault for any of these, and he should so like to have a simple piece to gaze upon, should the war force them apart, as is likely at some point in the future.   
  
He ignores the small part of him that should provide a certain word for this strong attachment, this strong wish to never be parted from Hamilton, but he will ignore it until the ends of time if he must.   
  
Slowly, cautiously, he begins a sketch. He has not his proper drawing utensils, fully expecting to never undertake such again, particularly whilst at war—but simple ink lines should suffice, for this.   
  
It would be better to have Hamilton sit, but Laurens lacks the courage to ask for such from him; in any case, he should prefer Hamilton did not see it, lest he guess at why Laurens wishes so ardently to have this memento.  
  
He still cannot believe Hamilton should want one such as him, no matter what he may claim, when he appears well able to find women with which to dally, and surely with which to share love and life.   
  
Laurens knows that though Hamilton may _believe_ he desires and cares for him at present, one day he shall leave in pursuit of easier, societally accepted affections.   
  
And so, this.   
  
As the sketch progresses, Laurens grows frustrated; he seems well able to capture Hamilton’s likeness, but for his eyes. Such fire, such passion, such confidence; it be incredibly difficult to capture these in simple black and white, lines and spaces.   
  
His candle burns down near to a stump, and he knows he ought not to waste it on this trivial matter, but finds he cannot let it be.   
  
  
It must be ticking towards one in the morning, two almost, and his shoulder takes up a persistent ache, so Laurens finally puts down his quill. He be not entirely satisfied with the end result, but the likeness is clear, and this seems somewhat of an achievement after months of artistic neglect.   
  
“Laurens?” A surprised, whispered query drifts through the open door. “You are still awake? You ought to be resting; heed the late hour!”   
  
Laurens smiles tiredly in pleased recognition. “Ah, Hamilton. I see you have returned from your secret tasks.”   
  
Hamilton snorts, steps into the office fully, closes the door. “Not secret, just rather tedious. What do you seek to work on so long?”   
  
“I—” Laurens hesitates, manages to shove his sketch under the as yet unanswered letters. “Just letters. To my father.”   
  
“Hmm.” Hamilton moves across the room into Laurens’ space, drags a chair over beside him and slumps into it.   
  
“Hush!” hisses Laurens, as the chair scrapes rather loudly against the wooden floor. “All others are asleep.”   
  
Hamilton only grins. “Aye, I know.” His quirked mouth threatens mischief; his tone of voice implies such further.   
  
Laurens rolls his eyes, casts his gaze sleepily over the piles of correspondence scattering his desk. “No, Sir. Not in the very office in which we work.”   
  
Hamilton laughs delightedly. “I said nothing!”   
  
“Your expression suggested otherwise.”   
  
Hamilton shifts over in his chair, so that he is half perched on it, half beginning to encroach upon Laurens’ seat. He sprawls across the desk in front of Laurens, elbow crumpling paper, almost falling into his lap, face cast upwards with a smirk.   
  
“It be not any fault of mine that your temperament should imagine such improper things, Sir.”  
  
Laurens huffs. “You wreck my hard work with your inability to sit straight.”   
  
Hamilton only grins, shifts back slightly so that his shoulder and head collide with Laurens’ chest.   
  
Hamilton’s hair tickles under his chin, and he sighs.   
  
“Perhaps you are right, and we should to bed.”   
  
Hamilton sits up again, pressing a soft kiss to Laurens’ neck as he takes up position with his head on Laurens’ (uninjured) shoulder. “Hmm. We should. And what should we do, when we are abed?”   
  
Laurens blinks, splutters, flushes red as his mind conjures images he dare not speak upon. He coughs.   
  
“Why sleep, I would imagine.”   
  
“Would you now?” Hamilton queries softly, the heavy weight of his head strangely comfiting. “Is that truly all you would imagine?”   
  
Laurens’ eyes widen, he shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Given that we share room and bed with other men, aye, that is all I should imagine.”   
  
“And if we did not?”   
  
“Did not, what, Sir?”   
  
“Share room and bed with other men?” Hamilton’s voice has shifted down a tone, grown softer, rumbles lower in his throat. “What should you imagine then?”   
  
Laurens presses his lips together, focuses on the written words in front of him. “I do not think respectable gentlemen should speak on such imaginings as that.”   
  
A low chuckle vibrates against Laurens’ side. Hamilton places a hand atop Laurens’ left, squeezes it gently. “Then it be lucky I am not such gentlemen, but rather, of lower birth, as you know.”   
  
“Oh?” Laurens questions, clears his throat; he should give anything for water, his mouth so dry with talk as this.   
  
“Indeed,” murmurs Hamilton, breath hot against Laurens’ skin. “And so, I would easily whisper of forbidden things; shared beds, perhaps, naked limbs entangled, fingers on smooth skin, your mouth against my throat, your hand firmly taking my—”   
  
“Hamilton!” hisses Laurens, cutting the man off before he should say anything further obscene, incriminating. He is aghast both at such bold, entirely indecorous insinuations spoken aloud, and also at how readily, how hungrily, his body responds to them. “You must not speak so here, where others may hear!”   
  
“As you said, the others be all asleep.”   
  
“Even so,” spits out Laurens, moving his shoulder so that Hamilton lifts his head unwillingly. “Did I not say this cannot continue if we are to be reckless in it?”   
  
“You are reckless in all else.” Hamilton actually seems to pout. “Why not in this?”  
  
Laurens frowns, looks away. “I am reckless when I may risk only myself.”  
  
Hamilton shifts properly back into his chair, creates this irate space between them, but leaves his hand where it lies over Laurens’.   
  
“You must still have no idea how much it should anger me to hear you say so, John. How is it not already perfectly clear that risking you must risk me, for my heart now entwined with your wellbeing?”   
  
Laurens only continues looking stubbornly away, at the wall. “I meant what I said about us being careful, Alexander. I stand by it.” He glances back at his letters.   
  
Hamilton snorts. “Laurens.”   
  
Laurens refuses to look. Perhaps rather childish, but nonetheless.   
  
“John!”   
  
Hamilton’s tone now threatens to grow loud and wake others—does he not also act childish with such?—so Laurens concedes, spares a glance at him.   
  
“What, Sir?”   
  
Hamilton suddenly seems tired, beaten down, far too weary for one so young—for they are both young, are they not, though this campaign may age men many years.   
  
“I agree we ought to be careful. Any here will attest to my intelligence, and my intelligence should know the graveness of our being caught. However, I think you wrong if this means we should never engage in any affections where we may. That be not reckless, but rather, selecting the right moment.”  
  
Laurens slumps; his shoulder truly aches. “Perhaps. Though I should wish to continue this as ardently as you, I am still not settled that this be the correct course to take, truly.”  
  
Hamilton’s eyes harden. “The course in question being ‘us’ as an entity, I take it?”  
  
Laurens removes his hand from under Hamilton’s, where it has lain even as they argue. “ _Oui_. For what even be the word for this ‘us’? Sodomites? It seems hardly a thing when there are no true words that should recognise its existence.”  
  
Hamilton’s tone is sharp. “I see no reason for that to have any bearing; many things in this world have no word to describe them when first they exist, but they must first exist all the same. Our country itself could not be dreamed its own entity until it were written so, and yet now we fight for its freedom. Any cause must be first begun, and thus, consequently named.”   
  
_One ought to never argue with a man who reads philosophy for amusement in the rare time he may claim for himself_ , Laurens thinks, darkly humorous.  
  
“Perhaps, but still—”   
  
“Laurens!” Hamilton’s voice is now so sharp that if Laurens were made of glass, he would shatter under its bite. “You must stop with this! You cannot say that this can be chosen against easily now it is begun, as though it a water pump one may turn on and off with ease, whenever one wishes. Speaking like this, saying one ought to stop caring for one if it grows too dangerous, be not the same as doing so.”   
  
Then Hamilton’s voice lowers, grows softer, gentler. “You may say these things because you think to protect our hearts, but our hearts are already captured by this affection, can you not see? It cannot be pretended from existence simply because you should wish it so, for ease, for comfort.”  
  
Laurens knows this true as soon as it is spoken—no, has known such to be true for as long as he has struggled with his sinful nature. But it should feel so entrapping, terrifying, to speak it aloud.  
  
“I suppose you right, Alexander,” he whispers.   
  
Hamilton hums, cautiously rests his head back on Laurens’ shoulder, as though to test whether he be still angered.   
  
Laurens allows it, and so Hamilton seems to attempt further, laying a hand on Laurens’ thigh, teasing it slowly down towards his knee, up towards his groin, a little higher each time, until he might brush against—  
  
Laurens lays his hand over Hamilton’s, stilling it. “Though I surrender to your arguments, I continue to stand firm on nothing being attempted in this room, Sir.”  
  
Hamilton puffs irritated breathe against Laurens’ neck. “Damn you and your southern gentlemanly constitution.”   
  
Laurens only chuckles at the jest. “We should to bed.”  
  
Hamilton, however, does not move. “What do you write your father on?”  
  
At this, Laurens laughs outright. “That twice now my father has managed to make his way into speech when we have been previously engaging in improper actions.”   
  
Hamilton does not laugh in return; only lifts his head again, stares at the papers on the desk, demands: “Does he write of Congress?”   
  
The playfulness in his speech has died away completely; this is Washington’s Hamilton now, not Laurens’ Alexander.   
  
Laurens wonders on the quick change, heart sinking. Is this to do with Hamilton’s _tedious tasks_ of the afternoon?”   
  
“He does,” he answers carefully. “Do you speak of something in particular?”   
  
Hamilton sits up even straighter. “What does he say of them—what does he write? Does he—”   
  
Here, Hamilton is interrupted by a very quiet knock on the office door, so quiet it be almost unheard.   
  
The knob creaks ever so softly.   
  
And this be why such actions as Hamilton wished to engage in should have been proven unwise!  
  
“I hope I do not intrude,” begins a familiar tone. “Only I heard soft voices, and wondered on who might still be awake at such a late, nay, early, hour—Ah! Hamilton. This not a surprise.”   
  
It is Major Tallmadge that steps through the door.   
  
Laurens has not seen him much since before the British took Philadelphia, and interacted properly with him hardly at all since his first few days.   
  
Tallmadge appears very tired, aged—though Laurens knows him the same in years as he—under-eyes greatly darkened, hair appearing rather lank. He seems thinner too, perhaps less jovial.   
  
“Laurens, also,” Tallmadge smiles, but the fatigue he clearly tries to hide behind his smile is all too clear. “This not a surprise either, since you two aides seem always to be spoken of in one breath. I am glad you seem well-recovered.”  
  
And here be something else Laurens worries on. All know him and Hamilton the dearest of friends, now. He counts on their innocence, and lack of knowledge on such improper matters, that they deduce no more from this.  
  
“Thank you, Sir,” he manages to muster in reply.   
  
Hamilton moves almost imperceptibly away from Laurens. “Am I needed?”   
  
Tallmadge shakes his head. “I think we have spoken enough for one day on such matters; I only desired some company.”  
  
Laurens stares, thinks on this. For truly, spying must be an incredibly lonely venture.  
  
“Then please sit, Sir,” he smiles, making sure it one of genuine warmth.   
  
Tallmadge’s eyes crease with what seems sincere gratitude; he pulls up a chair on the other side of the desk Laurens and Hamilton occupy, and produces a flask, from somewhere hidden on his person.   
  
He tilts it towards them questioningly. “Gentlemen?”   
  
Laurens watches Hamilton’s eyes flick to the clock, watches as he shrugs. “There seems little use in attempting sleep this night, or morn, I ought to say now; go ahead, Sir.”   
  
Tallmadge huffs a laugh, though it wears a cynical edge. He pours the contents of the flask into two used mugs sitting on the desk, then swigs from it himself.   
  
It appears rum, which probably does not pair well with the sorry dregs of coffee still present in the mugs, but as he drinks, Laurens finds he does not care.   
  
They sit in contemplative, candlelit silence for a while, or as long as a men like them may allow.   
  
Laurens feels the liquor warm his cheeks, dull the throb in his shoulder; he leans back against the wall and surveys Tallmadge across the table.   
  
“If it is not too presumptuous to ask: what impedes your sleep, Sir?”   
  
Tallmadge quirks a smile. “The reasons be too numerous to name.”   
  
Laurens finds his tongue looser with rum, else he may not remark: “In other words, it is not too presumptuous to ask, but you shall not answer anyhow.”   
  
Tallmadge chuckles softly. “Ah, I see you cut through any of my obfuscations. Indeed, I am the keeper of many secrets, but many are not mine to tell.”  
  
“As is Hamilton,” Laurens replies, feels Hamilton jerk beside him.   
  
“Laurens—” he begins in wary tone, but Laurens interrupts.   
  
“I only mean you are privy to some of what Tallmadge worries on. Is that not so?”   
  
He feels a light tap against his thigh—Hamilton’s finger—but only smiles gently, so he may know he speaks in jest, and not serious resentment.   
  
Tallmadge glances between them, seeming cautious. “Indeed, that is so. I hope it not a cause of tension among the aides?”   
  
Laurens makes a face. “Nay; all understand some are regarded better than others, here.” The tone is more bitter than he should like, when he only means to jest, but what of it? It makes the phrase no less true.   
  
Another reassuring tap against his thigh.   
  
Hamilton’s reply is soft. “Washington only thinks not to place you in a difficult position, being in possession of knowledge your Father may wish for, but which you cannot divulge.”  
  
“I keep secrets well,” Laurens retorts, then bites his tongue. His secrets are many; none should be divulged in front of Tallmadge.   
  
Speaking of him, Tallmadge drinks from the flask again, eyes Laurens carefully. “If you should desire some new knowledge?”   
  
Hamilton starts. “Tallmadge—”   
  
Tallmadge waves a hand, fatigue creeping across his face. “All should know most of this tomorrow, anyhow.”   
  
Hamilton subsides, drinks.   
  
“Sir?” Laurens prompts.   
  
Tallmadge sighs. “At Saratoga, Gates has been offered Burgoyne’s surrender.”   
  
“In no small part due to the efforts of General Arnold,” Hamilton adds, wryly.  
  
Laurens feels his eyes widen greatly, a smile seep across his face. Should not Tallmadge and Hamilton appear more cheered by such as this?   
  
What be the unpleasant catch?   
  
“But that is excellent news! To have won such a victory against the British forces—surely this should help the favourability of our cause amongst the French?”  
  
Tallmadge nods, but his expression does not shift from one of unease. “Indeed, it should.”  
  
Laurens frowns, glances at Tallmadge and Hamilton in turn. “And yet, I sense more to this.”  
  
Hamilton crosses his arms, glares at the table. “We were so informed of this victory by Congress only.”   
  
Laurens still does not see why this should—oh!   
  
_Oh, Lord._   
  
He feels his mouth drop open slightly.   
  
“Please, correct my assumption if I be misinformed, given my relative newness to army proceedings, but—should Washington not have been sent an official report on this direct from Gates? As his immediate superior?”   
  
Tallmadge nods grimly. “Indeed.”   
  
And though Laurens now is given only some access to what information the spymaster likely has, this be enough to see why such as this should warrant Tallmadge’s involvement.   
  
“Is there some…conspiracy, here?”   
  
Hamilton sighs heavily. “None can tell as yet, not even a man of Tallmadge’s talent.”   
  
Tallmadge huffs a laugh, sarcastic. “And those of more talent than I with such political matters also struggle with it, as Hamilton.”   
  
“In any case,” Hamilton allows. “We are to watch for it, and listen for any and all. The General fears—well, we already know there some discontent amongst certain members of Congress, certain Generals, over Washington’s command. How far this goes, though, whether there be true threat to his position, we are yet unsure.”   
  
Laurens scowls. “It is not enough that we fight the British? We must fight amongst ourselves as well?”   
  
Tallmadge shrugs, downs the last of the flask, flickering candles casting his face in shadow. “It seems so.”  
  
Hamilton suddenly turns to Laurens, eyes alight. “John—you were just about to speak on what your father writ from Congress. What says he, on this, do you think?”  
  
Tallmadge’s brow has quirked, though whether at Hamilton’s informal use of Laurens’ first name, or at thoughts of Henry Laurens, he cannot be sure.   
  
Laurens scans the letters before him. Hamilton has already conjured ink and paper from somewhere, ready as ever to take notes.   
  
“He does not write so overtly as that, you must understand. And much of his letters have been occupied by queries on my health.”   
  
“Yes, certainly,” Tallmadge grants. “But?”   
  
It is strange, but it is as though a mask has suddenly slid from Tallmadge’s face, shedding agreeability and exhaustion with it. Gone seem the soft, cheerful eyes, the easy disposition. Instead, his gaze grows sharp and calculating, jaw tightening, face hardening.  
  
This be the spy under the man, then, and it is somewhat unsettling, somewhat terrifying, to witness.   
  
Hamilton’s face also has shifted, and this disconcerts Laurens more, for he thought he had seen nearly all emotions and manners of the man dance across his face in the time they have been known to one another.   
  
Now, however, he sees this sharp, calculating side of Hamilton clear also, and though it entirely logical that it should exist, given how he climbs, how he manages to keep achieving all ends he desires, it too is unsettling.  
  
He shrugs the feeling off, and continues. “He writes—firstly, he makes sure to include how he dislikes telling tales, but that he fears the damage done by loose tongues should be worse.”   
  
Tallmadge’s gaze is narrowed upon him. “And what do these loose tongues say?”   
  
Laurens hesitates. Now that he rereads his father’s words, in light of what Hamilton and Tallmadge have spoken of, they should seem further ominous. “He names no names, but…writes that he overheard some say, that were they in command, they should have procured all required without, and I quote here, _such whining complaints_.”   
  
Hamilton makes a strangled noise of anger, but Laurens silences him with a hand, keeps reading. “He says also, another spoke that they would have prevented desertions such as we suffer with proper attention, and another, that it be easy to prevent intercourse between our army and the enemy, and easy to gain intelligence also, but that we never mind who comes in and goes out our camp. In essence, that we lack discipline and regulation with Washington as our Commander.”  
  
Hamilton gapes. “Your father truly overheard such? Freely spoken? In Congress?”   
  
Laurens nods grimly. “Not during regular session, but aye, indeed.”   
  
Tallmadge also stares. “That it be discussed so openly is worse than I should have feared.”  
  
Laurens frowns, is careful how he speaks. “I do not think my father believes it so widespread as that, nor any organised move against the General as yet, likely just incautious grumbling. But still, it concerns me also, and more so now that I have heard how reporting of the Saratoga victory were handled.”   
  
Tallmadge stands abruptly, begins pacing back and forth. “I should need to speak to the General of this as soon as I am able; see if he should wish I contact those I know who may move amongst Congress and listen. I ought—”   
  
He stops, seeming to come back to himself suddenly, gaze flitting over Laurens, and Hamilton. “Well. I have said enough, I think. Though I am grateful for your counsel, Laurens, and indebted to you for relaying your father’s private letters to me, I ought not speak more of what might be done on the subject.”   
  
Laurens quirks a dry smile. “No indeed, for I am not in the business of intelligence.”  
  
He feels slightly uncomfortable relaying his father’s words, now Tallmadge has put it as this, but surely his father would not be surprised he does so? He is Washington’s man now, after all, even more so than his father’s, with the position he holds here, and the work he does.   
  
Tallmadge barks a laugh. “Ha, no, you are not. And, truthfully, I do not recommend it.”   
  
Hamilton tilts his head questioningly. “Shall I hear from you further on this?”  
  
Tallmadge regards him thoughtfully. “Perhaps. It shall depend on what actions the General might wish me to undertake, if he should wish anything at all from me on it. For after all, Hamilton, though you are so often trusted in this manner as I am, you are not a spy, either.”  
  
“No,” says Hamilton softly, almost so soft it may not be caught. “I am never quite one thing or the other, it seems, nor enough of either to be solidly only one.”   
  
There seems further insinuated in this comment beyond spying or no, and Laurens wonders on what it should mean. Does this contain additional clues about the man who has captured all his affections so utterly?   
  
Tallmadge only nods at Hamilton, seeming not to hear, or not to care, about his strange statement. “I must apologise, gentlemen, for though I offered my company and imposed upon you, it seems I must now withdraw it and seek out the General, if he still awake.”   
  
“You will not sleep?” Laurens finds himself asking, oddly concerned on the seeming perpetual state of exhaustion Tallmadge operates under.   
  
Tallmadge only grins, but it be a smile that lacks all amusement, contains only ready knives, and sharpened blood-stained blades. “Nay, Laurens. Sleep is not afforded to spies, or only rarely. Though I should not recommend such a task to others, it is one that I excel at, however that may reflect ill upon my temperament.”   
  
Hamilton only regards Tallmadge warily. “Then go to it, Sir, if you must. Though I would ask of you: have you yet established what you so ardently advocate for?”   
  
Tallmadge grimaces. “In that I am not proven so successful, but understand this, Hamilton: it will be established, and Washington shall see the great value of it.”  
  
Hamilton smiles an odd, ambitious smile. “That he shall.”   
  
Tallmadge nods to them both once more, farewells politely, and hurries away into the darkened early hours of the morn.   
  
“What were that about?” Laurens questions Hamilton quietly, when the door has been closed once more.   
  
Hamilton only shakes his head. “I wish I were at liberty to speak of it to you, Laurens, but I am not.”   
  
Laurens is ready to complain of such secrecy between them, when Hamilton should encourage so passionately for an ‘us’, but then he thinks of wives, and children, and shame, and finds he has far more hidden than Hamilton does, and all of it far less forgivable, so says nothing at all.  
  
Hamilton seems not to have realised Laurens’ odd discomfort. “Tallmadge is certainly a most interesting man, would you not agree?”  
  
Laurens is startled from his uncomfortable introspection at this, stares at Hamilton. His tone sounds…and the look upon his face…  
  
“Hamilton are you—do you… _admire_ Tallmadge?” When Laurens asks such, admiration takes the place of other, more improper words.   
  
Hamilton smirks cheekily. “And if I do, what of it?”   
  
“Hamilton!” Laurens is shocked into stunned laughter.   
  
Hamilton’s eyes sparkle with mirth. “What? Oh, never fear, Laurens, I give my heart to none but you.”   
  
Laurens’ mouth moves but no sound makes it out, such is his immense astonishment.   
  
Hamilton continues, tone suggestive. “In any case, I do not believe Tallmadge shares our ardent admiration for the male form.”   
  
“Hamilton!” splutters Laurens. “You cannot—”   
  
“Cannot, what?” Hamilton only seems to laugh at Laurens’ mortification. “If he had been so inclined, before I made your acquaintance, I should have liked to know him better. In fact, I am certain I would have greatly enjoyed such.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.   
  
Laurens knows his face likely redder than the freshest tomato. “Alexander, you cannot speak that way!”   
  
Hamilton only grins. “And why not, Sir? We may think and act these things, but not speak of them; that be where the line is drawn? Ha! Many men speak of women in such a way as this.”   
  
Laurens supposes that true, though of course, he has never felt comfortable with such discussion as that either.   
  
“I—well—indeed, yes, that be true, but not of men! Not of such…immoral admirations.”   
  
For no matter how comfortable one may be with his sinful inclinations—and Laurens not yet so comfortable as that, truly—people do not speak of them so outwardly, so cheerfully!   
  
Hamilton only rolls his eyes at Laurens’ insincere protestations. “Oh, Laurens, do cease harking on morality, I grow tired of it. I care for you, you for I, and I know you should certainly enjoy what I may do to you with such actions as we have shared. Is that not enough?”   
  
He pauses, surveys Laurens, gaze thoughtful. “We are neither of us God—indeed, it should be a worse blasphemy to think us that, in my humble opinion—and therefore should not be in the business of judging, any or ourselves, so long as what feelings we share are pure, and I believe them so.”  
  
Laurens only blinks, runs his mind over what Hamilton has said. He finds himself far too tired to debate properly, and further, however sinful this may be, he is quite happy to be persuaded otherwise by Hamilton’s strong words.  
  
“I—I believe them pure also.”  
  
And he does, or at least, the feelings themselves, if not necessarily the actions that may stem from such.  
  
Hamilton nods decisively. “Well then. Tallmadge is none the wiser on my impure thoughts about his person, and I have amused and teased you also, so I count this a victory.”  
  
Now, Laurens rolls his eyes in turn. “You count every discussion a victory, I think.”   
  
“Just so,” Hamilton responds. “For I am usually found to be of superior wit, after all.”   
  
Laurens smacks him gently on the arm. “And where is this ‘humble opinion’ of which you spoke just now? I see no such humbleness about you.”   
  
“Ha!” chuckles Hamilton. “I concede this true with no shame.” He turns his gaze back to the scribbled lines he worked on as Laurens spoke about his father.   
  
“Would you mind very much if I quickly turned my hand to a report for Washington?”   
  
Laurens only smiles. “Not at all; I find myself quite enamoured by you when you work.”  
  
Hamilton smirks in return, and then is lost to the world of paper, ink and words that only he seems the true master of.   
  
  
Laurens has all but drifted off to sleep, still seated at his desk, when he is awoken from his half hazed world of muddled waking dreams and relentless throbbing shoulders by Hamilton pressing an insistent kiss to his neck.   
  
“Hamilton,” he murmurs wearily. “My dear, what—you heard what I said of this room, and certain actions.”   
  
Hamilton only mouths at the skin under Laurens’ ear, and he shudders pleasantly at the feather light touch, coming to his senses.   
  
“Hamilton! What—?” Laurens forces his eyes open proper, glances around blearily, as Hamilton continues his kissing and sucking. “What are you—”   
  
Laurens feels his stomach drop to his boots. In his haste to read his father’s words to Tallmadge and Hamilton prior, he must have dislodged the sketch from its thoughtless hiding place, for Hamilton now clutches it in his hand.   
  
“ _Damnation_ ,” he mutters under his breath, and Hamilton draws back. He gazes at Laurens uncertainly, fond but questioning.   
  
“John?”  
  
Laurens holds his left hand out, gesturing at the sketch. “May I have it back?”   
  
Hamilton only frowns, shakes his head. “No, you may not.”   
  
“Hamilton—!”  
  
“You may not have it back unless you explain why it were hidden.”   
  
Laurens stares, embarrassment and shame twisting to a strange sort of anger. “It would not do to have Tallmadge see it.”   
  
“I agree,” Hamilton fires back. “But that is not why it were hidden.”  
  
Laurens rolls his injured shoulder slightly, pain spiking, feeding his anger. “I think I should know why I hid it, Sir.”   
  
“I think you should,” Hamilton retorts. “And I think you lie.”   
  
This does nothing to quell Laurens’ anger, for he cannot righteously refute the truth. “What would you have me say?”   
  
“I would have you tell me why you hid a drawing from the very subject you drew!”   
  
“It were not hidden from you!” Laurens tries, feels heat rise in his cheeks from the obvious untruth.   
  
Hamilton sits back, regarding first the drawing, and then Laurens himself. His voice is calm, soft, dangerous. “I think I know you well enough to spot a falsehood, John. Why do you say such to me?”   
  
Hurt underlines every word of _why do you say such to me_ , fizzing and bleeding off its wounded edges.   
  
Laurens slumps, anger draining away as though Hamilton’s hurt be a needle piercing an infected limb.   
  
“I were—” he tries, finds he is unsure how to explain. “I were embarrassed by it,” he settles on, finally, though this does not entirely encompass such feelings adequately.  
  
Hamilton regards him, frown creasing his face still present, but gentler, more puzzled. “I think perhaps we now approach the truth. But why?” He glances back down at the drawing, face softening. “You are certainly incredibly talented.”   
  
Laurens shakes his head, bites the inside of his cheek. “Not by the—not by the drawing itself, though it has been rather a while since I practised such.”   
  
Hamilton quirks an eyebrow. “I see I must drag this from you, stubborn as you are. If not the skill, then what, Sir?”  
  
Laurens wonders if Hamilton plays deliberately dense. “By—by—Oh, damn you Alexander, by my wanting to draw such in the first place!”   
  
Hamilton tilts his head, grasps Laurens’ left hand, winds their fingers together, squeezes. “Why should that embarrass you? It only demonstrates care, I should think, which we have both admitted to many times anyhow.”   
  
Laurens only shrugs miserably. “Men desire keepsakes of their wives and children when they head to war, not other men. No matter what you may argue, it seems—wrong, somehow.”   
  
Hamilton hums quietly, thoughtfully, presses against Laurens’ side. “Have I not already instructed you to stop worrying on the supposed morality of this? I find myself growing rather repetitive by now.”   
  
Laurens shakes his head. “This be not—not about _morality_ , not exactly. I find myself embarrassed—no, perhaps that is the wrong word after all. I find myself—” He hesitates, then whispers: “Afraid.”   
  
And there: that is far closer to the truth of the matter.   
  
Hamilton squeezes his hand tighter. “Afraid of consequences?” His voice has also lowered to a whisper.   
  
“No,” murmurs Laurens. “Not—consequences, though I should fear those too. Rather, all of this, whatever this be, scares me so. Finding such care with a man, finding such care at all, fear of losing such, fear of _wanting_.”  
  
Hamilton inhales sharply. “Fear of wanting. Do you know, John, I know that fear acutely. Wanting, being _wanted_. I have always sought to be needed, to be essential, so that I may have a place in this world, and I have also sought to not need, nor want, others, since there be no guarantee any may be kept. This drawing—”   
  
Unusually for Hamilton, he seems to lose his words, and when he regains them he sounds awfully young, awfully unsure. “This drawing should make me appear wanted, by you, and that should scare me as well. Being wanted, and also, how much I should want for you.”   
  
Laurens stares at Hamilton’s open gaze. It invites him to truly see the man, truly see Hamilton, bear witness to the pieces that create his Alexander.   
  
“Keep the drawing,” he finds himself murmuring. “Please.”   
  
Hamilton blinks once. Twice. A surprised, sweet smile creeps over his face. He folds it up carefully, places it in his breast pocket, right above where his heart should beat.   
  
“Thank you,” he breathes, and Laurens wonders whether he has ever heard Hamilton truly thank any before.  
  
Hamilton presses up into Laurens’ space, catches his mouth with his lips and kisses him ever so gently, mouth open only slightly, then draws away, Laurens’ lips caught between his a moment longer before he withdraws completely.   
  
“Laurens,” he begins quietly, a look of sudden revelation on his face, speaking only with the air Laurens may exhale, “I find that I—”  
  
And Laurens shifts back, breaks eye contact, stands abruptly. “I think I really ought to tend to my wound now; the dressing requires a change, and I have put it off quite long enough.”   
  
Hamilton blinks rapidly, mouth still open to speak, eyes gazing upwards, heated, on Laurens’ face.   
  
“Oh—yes. Certainly. I—shall I assist?”   
  
Laurens shakes his head. “Nay, that—that is quite alright.” He clears his throat. “The sun is near to rising, and others shall soon wake. We should return this room to rights.”  
  
Hamilton still seems rather confused, half caught between their previous conversation and now.   
  
Laurens watches his gaze catch on the scrambled chairs and messy piles of correspondence.  
  
“Why, I suppose. Yes. I suppose I can attend to that. But, John—”   
  
Laurens is already at the door. “I shall return as soon as I am able.”  
  
Hamilton’s eyes narrow. His confusion clearly fades into something akin to fury. “Please do so, Sir.”  
  
Laurens nods awkwardly, feels sorry he has made this lovely moment into one so awful, but knows not how to fix such now.   
  
“Aye.”   
  
As he stumbles out the door with the lack of grace afforded to one who has not slept a wink, he hears Hamilton call after him.   
  
“I am indebted to you for this gift.”   
  
And Laurens knows he speaks of the drawing, and he cringes, hurries away.   
  
Truly, he did not mean to cause such as this, but he got such a terrible feeling, an awful premonition, of what Hamilton were about to speak, give words to, and could not take such.   
  
Not yet, at least.   
  
He is not ready to be so truthful to himself or Alexander as that.

***

_James Morris House  
Whitpain Township   
October 22nd – November 1st 1777_

The next few days are extremely busy once more, with the army first occupied by moving five miles closer to Philadelphia, making camp in lower Whitpain Township, and headquarters also kept occupied by this move to a new location.  
  
Hamilton is kept away from Laurens often, on some business or another, sometimes with Tallmadge, sometimes not.   
  
Laurens overhears a little of what goes on behind these closed doors, if only because sometimes Harrison is privy to it, and Tilghman should nag at him so to speak on it.   
  
Where Hamilton refuses such when nagged, and maintains his silence—does he seek to ensure he remains in Washington’s favour with this?—Harrison does not mind informing the other aides, so long as the information be not overly sensitive.   
  
As such, this particular day, the twenty-seventh, Harrison returns to the aides-de-camp office at noon, and Tilghman is upon him almost immediately with questions.   
  
“How goes the Council, then?”   
  
For Washington currently meets with five Major Generals—Laurens recognises Knox and Greene when they arrive—and ten brigadiers, in another war council. Hamilton has been drafted into taking minutes, and though he grumbled on the prospect of such the previous evening, all know him exceedingly gratified to have been chosen for such.   
  
Harrison is summoned in and out, depending what the General may require at any given time.   
  
“Well, Sir?” prompts Meade, setting his quill down and rubbing his eyes. “Leave us not in suspense!”   
  
Harrison only sighs, sits tiredly at a desk, arms overflowing with loose, ink-filled pages, which he sets down carefully.   
  
“It seems we may have a possible solution for many things: the desertions, the ranks being thinned by the expiration of one-year enlistments, and reinforcements for Forts Mifflin and Mercer.”   
  
“Truly?” Fitzgerald queries, now also setting the letter he currently copies aside. “How so?”   
  
Harrison takes a gulp of probably cold coffee; the poor man appears utterly spent. “His Excellency proposes to have Gates send a sizable portion of his troops to us, since the Saratoga victory has all but curtailed the British threat in New York, and such large numbers of men ought not be required by him any longer.”   
  
“And?” Laurens asks, allowing himself into the conversation also. “What should the other Generals say?”   
  
“They are like to agree; at least eventually, I think.” Harrison is slowly sorting his papers into piles; squints at one rather angrily. “You know how they should like to argue at length first, for the sake of pretending influence over proceedings.”  
  
At his desk, Meade flops over dramatically, groans, nearly spills ink all over the floor. “But Gates is in Albany! That be a ride of nine, ten days, surely. Good God!”   
  
Harrison hums. “Watch your wondering elbows, Meade, else they cause disaster.” He smiles lightly, looks back down at his papers. “In any case, I should not worry overly on the subject of an Albany bound ride.”   
  
“No?” Meade’s jesting tone grows irritated. “Why so? Because you will not undertake it?”  
  
Harrison’s eyes flick up once more; contrary to Meade’s temperament, he appears rather amused.   
  
“No, Sir. Because neither shall you.”   
  
There is an odd pause in the aide’s office as all take this in. Then—  
  
“If not Meade,” Tilghman posits. “Then who? Not I, I would hope.”   
  
“Nor I,” laughs Fitzgerald. “Perhaps not an aide at all?”  
  
Harrison only chuckles. “Hamilton, I should think.”   
  
“Hamilton?” Laurens asks without thinking, voice louder than he means.   
  
Harrison’s gaze leaps to him. “Aye.”   
  
“Should not one with greater tact be required for such an unwelcome message?” This be Reed’s contribution to the conversation; impolite, as is often usual, but not untrue.  
  
Harrison only shrugs. “If you were but to hear Hamilton speak at such Councils as these, you would not doubt his fire, not his ability to persuade, which in this case, should be more effective than tact. He does not use such often on us, this is true, but he certainly possesses the ability.”   
  
Laurens well knows Hamilton’s uncanny ability to argue and persuade, or at least beat one into submission with his intellect until the conversation becomes so confused, any man up against him must surrender.   
  
Fitzgerald makes an odd, almost snort. “Also, we may forget he be trusted by the General solely among us to make decisions without consultation; at such a distance as Albany, this should be essential, I imagine.”  
  
“That, also,” Harrison acquiesces, though he sounds rather more agreeable about such a prospect than Fitzgerald.  
  
Laurens, however, realises another flaw (despite the obvious one: that he should not want Hamilton absent for so long).  
  
“Might Gates become irritated with only a Lieutenant Colonel being sent to speak with him, command him, and a youthful one, at that?”   
  
Harrison only shrugs. “Gates may need to shoulder his pride; Washington is his Commander-in-Chief, after all, and it is at his will that Hamilton shall so speak, not his own.”  
  
From what little Laurens knows of Gates, even he can see this may be a tall order, but says nothing more about it.   
  


Later that same evening, as Laurens makes for the aide’s shared quarters (in this place, he bunks with Meade, and God, the man does move in his sleep) he bumps, quite literally, into Tallmadge.  
  
Tallmadge, for his part, appears to knock his elbow extremely hard into the wall, right where the bone should cause most pain.   
  
Laurens bumps his shoulder, and yelps rather childishly at the healing wound being jostled so.   
  
“Dear Lord,” Tallmadge swears, grasping his elbow through watering eyes. “I apologise heartily. Are you quite alright, Laurens?”   
  
Laurens grits his teeth, hisses between them. “I imagine I shall be presently. And I also apologise, as I believe it not your fault alone.”  
  
“Perhaps not.” Tallmadge quirks a small smile. “But I rather think I come out of such better off.”   
  
Laurens squints through the incessant throbbing, nods in agreement.   
  
Once he can stand straight again, he goes to bid Tallmadge good night, but is stopped by the man’s hand grasping his left arm as he makes to move past him.   
  
“Sir?” he queries.  
  
In the dim candlelight of the corridor, Tallmadge appears to hesitate. “Has Hamilton yet departed?”  
  
Laurens is not at all surprised Tallmadge already knows of such, when Hamilton has yet to inform even the other aides himself; they should not even know, if not for Harrison.  
  
“No, and I doubt he be leaving for another couple days, if he does. Why so?”   
  
Tallmadge presses his lips together. “I know why Washington would send him, but I only—I have been informed that some in Congress, such as the Pennsylvanian delegate Benjamin Rush—do you know him of him?—speak somewhat ill of Hamilton.”  
  
Laurens frowns. “Of Hamilton? What know they specifically of one of the General’s many aides-de-camp?”   
  
Hamilton’s name being bandied about Congress as this discomfits Laurens, for many varying reasons.   
  
For one, what if his father were to write of him, ask of him? How should he respond to this merging of two such different worlds?   
  
He shudders.   
  
Tallmadge, meanwhile, glances this way and that, seeming to ensure they be alone. “Not only Hamilton; of Greene and Knox also. Rush were overheard saying he believes Washington to be ‘governed by General Greene, General Knox, and Colonel Hamilton’—and he does not sound best pleased by it.”   
  
Tallmadge seems to quote, as though from secret correspondence he has been sent. He continues rather dourly: “I should worry, if Gates be of a similar mind, that Hamilton’s mission doomed before it be even begun.”   
  
Laurens only sighs. “His Excellency would send him anyhow, and this should only encourage Hamilton, I think. He appears to thrive on requiring he prove himself in adverse circumstances.”   
  
“Hmm.” Tallmadge releases Laurens. “In any case, perhaps you may warn him?”  
  
“Why not you?” Laurens feels surprised at this; Tallmadge knowing Hamilton better than he knows Laurens after all.   
  
“Ah—” Tallmadge appears rather uncomfortable. “I may be engaging in…listening to Congressmen without explicit approval.”   
  
Laurens huffs. “I see. Say no more, Sir, I understand.”   
  
Tallmadge only laughs quietly. “Good night, Laurens.”   
  
Laurens shakes his head, makes for the bedrooms once more. “Good night, Tallmadge.”   
  


The next morn, Laurens finds himself dispatched several times, often with missives for French commanders, as Hamilton be engaged in preparations for his lengthy journey north; he will undertake such, it now officially confirmed.   
  
Laurens does not purposely avoid Hamilton, but if he does by circumstance, so much the better, for he still knows not how to address their odd disagreement two nights previous; and Laurens still so tired from sleeping not at all then, that such a discussion should likely end badly anyhow.   
  
Also, though it be certainly illogical, he thinks if he does not see Hamilton before he departs, perhaps he shall miss him less desperately?   
  
A foolish thought, likely, but Laurens knows himself a fool indeed.  
  
It be at least an hour past noon when he finally returns to headquarters, and finds it empty, but for Harrison and Fitzgerald.   
  
Now he thinks of it, Reed has also been absent fairly often from the office recently, and no one seems to remark upon why.   
  
A further mystery to unravel about the oft cantankerous man.   
  
In any case, Harrison and Fitzgerald make for productive company, and Laurens finds he has finished with all correspondence allotted to him this day, and so instead turns to the letters he neglects.   
  
Meade returns with Gibbs, interestingly enough, and coffee, just as Laurens finds he has managed a somewhat satisfactory reply to his father, and so stands to add it to the pile of messages for dispatch tomorrow.   
  
Meade grins at him, offers a mug. “I find our food and drink less and less edible; we may have a worry come winter if this should continue.”   
  
Beside him, Gibbs makes a face. “The accounts should agree with you.”  
  
“Let us not think on such dour things, if we may,” counters Harrison.   
  
Gibbs hums. “On the contrary, I must; I am sent to take inventory of supplies we have gathered in Morristown.”   
  
“Morristown?” queries Fitzgerald. “That be a fair ride.”   
  
“Indeed,” Gibbs shrugs. “But I go where I am so ordered.”   
  
Laurens sips his coffee; it tastes more of boiled water with a slight coffee flavour. “When are you set to depart?”   
  
“When Hamilton does so.” Gibbs sits down at an as yet unused desk, frowns at the papers he has carried with him into the office. “A day or two hence, I believe; once all the Generals are settled that commanding troops from Gates be the right course to take.”   
  
“You depart with Hamilton?” Laurens knows he really ought not push at this, but he should like to know Hamilton will not travel entirely alone.   
  
Gibbs nods. “As far as Morristown, in any case.”   
  
Laurens nods, sets his sealed letter atop the growing pile, returns to his desk.   
  
“For your father?” asks Meade, acting the part of snoop, but with such good cheer it cannot be rebuked.   
  
As such, Laurens only nods. “Indeed.”   
  
“You reassure him you live, I assume?” Fitzgerald now, employing teasing tone.   
  
Laurens rolls his eyes. “Yes, Sir, though how I recover with such meddling as yours, I know not.”   
  
Meade snorts. “With your shoulder still bandaged, I think you not so recovered as that anyhow.”  
  
“Perhaps I should recover quicker,” Laurens retorts, “If I were not bothered so by you.”   
  
“I think wounds usually unbothered by words in their recovery,” Harrison replies mildly. “So I think this topic of conversation rather obsolete.”   
  
Meade only raises his eyebrows. “But it should provide very good practice for my wit. Would you truly deprive me of such, Harrison?” His voice plays at wounded hurt.   
  
Before Harrison may reply to this, Hamilton’s red hair appears round the office door.   
  
His face seems strained. “Laurens?” he asks, tightly. “A word?”   
  
Laurens contains a wince, nods. “Certainly.”   
  
He departs the office quickly, follows behind Hamilton until they exit the house and find themselves out of the army’s many wandering eyes.   
  
Hamilton shivers slightly in the brisk air; evening approaches, and so does the part of fall that should supply proper chill.  
  
Laurens finds his fingers fiddle with loose shirt threads; he makes effort to still them.   
  
“You wished a word?”   
  
Truly, this awkwardness now Laurens’ fault. It seems every time they may begin to make progress with this affection between them, he should ruin it with his misgivings and fears.   
  
Hamilton shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, crosses his arms. “I did, yes.”   
  
“So?”   
  
Laurens wishes to reach a hand out, capture a strand of Hamilton’s hair, brush his cheek, hold him close. But he has created this barrier; must now wait on Hamilton’s words.   
  
Hamilton sighs, huffs. “I think I—I must owe you an apology, John.”   
  
Laurens blinks. An apology? For what? And further, has he ever heard Hamilton offer apology to any before? His pride should usually never allow it.   
  
“An apology? What—why so?”   
  
Hamilton only crosses his arms tighter, appearing rather small. “I know that you—you have far greater difficulty accepting these feelings you should have for men than I.”   
  
Laurens presses his lips together. This be true; he fails twice over. Fails at giving Hamilton what he should want, and fails because he wishes so ardently to offer such in the first place.   
  
Hamilton’s gaze on his face is gentle, even as he himself appears unsure. “And I—I know I push you to accept such, but this be rather selfish of me, I have come to realise. I—I think perhaps I should let you dictate the pace of this ‘us’, for I seem rather unsuccessful at it.”   
  
He uncrosses his arms, shrugs in a helpless manner. “Would this reassure you? If not, perhaps we ought to—to stop this after all.” Hamilton’s voice wavers awfully. “I should not know how I may live with such as that, but if it makes you happy, I should try.”   
  
A terrible pit opens up inside Laurens at such words, and though he has told himself many, many times over that perhaps ending this should be the wiser course, Hamilton has never _truly_ offered such, and so this option has never seemed an actual path he may take. Instead, more a foolish reassurance he may offer himself: that he can stop this sinning if he only tries.   
  
Now, it seems this very much be not the case.   
  
“Hamilton.” Laurens does reach out now, places left hand to Hamilton’s jaw. Hamilton sways forward slightly, at the apparent invitation to closeness.   
  
“I appreciate that you should offer such that would hurt you so, but I must be frank: It would hurt me, also.”   
  
Hamilton appears to breathe in sharply. “I thought—”   
  
Laurens sighs. “I know. I did not mean to imply—Well, that be my fault also, I know.” He pauses, searches carefully for the correct words. “Yes, it is true that I find it…difficult to reconcile with these failings of my soul. However, I shall stop harping on it so. In that, you are right; if the feelings pure, why not the actions of such?”   
  
He reaches out tentatively with his right arm, avoids twinging his shoulder, places hand to waist and draws Hamilton towards him closer. “I think it is I that owe an apology, for one moment I seem to welcome, and the next I push away. And that be entirely unfair, when you are nothing but patient with my fears.”  
  
“Patient.” Hamilton chuckles. “Why, I do not think I have ever been called such as that.”   
  
Laurens laughs too, gently, quietly. “Well, it usually is not warranted. And I—I shall miss you so, when you journey to Albany.”   
  
Hamilton now places both his hands on Laurens’ hips, under coat. “That be why I thought these words necessary; I should not like to leave with this quarrel between us.”  
  
Laurens sighs. “Foolishly, I thought it may make the parting less painful.”  
  
Hamilton rolls his eyes. “Foolish indeed, Sir. It should only make it worse, for what if something were to happen, and we had parted in such an outraged manner?”   
  
Laurens does not wish to think of that. “Do not say these things. We appear to attract trouble well enough without any such dire proclamations as that.”   
  
Hamilton steps closer to Laurens, so that his arms encircle him proper, and his lips be in close proximity for kisses. “Hmm. That we do.” He quirks his head. “Should I retract my apology then?”   
  
Laurens huffs a laugh. “Nay; I think it quite a miracle to have witnessed Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton apologise so.”  
  
At this, Hamilton darts forward, kisses Laurens lightly. He grins, eyes meeting Laurens’ with a sparkle of his usual mischief. “Ha, well, you may consider such as that my birthday gift to you, then, if it so unusually bestowed.”   
  
Laurens frowns, counts forward and backwards in his head, chuckles incredulously. “Why, indeed! My birthday falls today, does it not?”   
  
Hamilton laughs proper, so that teeth show, and he kisses Laurens again, on his nose, either side of his mouth, upon his lips, nipping teasingly as he pulls away.   
  
“And you not even aware!” Hamilton laughs again, presses face to Laurens’ good shoulder. “Foolish man indeed.”   
  
Laurens pulls a mock hurt face, every inch of him aware of Hamilton’s forehead buried in the skin of his neck. “I were busy! There be no time for such personal fancies in war.”   
  
“No?” Hamilton very lightly bites down; Laurens gasps. “If this true, perhaps I ought to take back these kisses, as surely they are deemed a personal fancy?”   
  
Laurens snorts, turns head slightly to kiss Hamilton’s hair. “Perhaps I shall do the same.”   
  
Hamilton’s head shoots up. He is smirking. “You would not dare, for how many men or women may be so lucky as to call Alexander Hamilton their lover?”   
_  
Their lover_.   
  
Laurens feels a shudder wrack him from head to toe at these words, heat shoot through him as a bolt of lightning might.   
  
He surges forward, capturing Hamilton’s mouth, pouring such anger and fear and terror and desire as this man may make him feel into the kiss, lips parting, tongues meeting. He runs a hand down Hamilton’s side, feels Hamilton gasp into his mouth, thinks _there be no way I shall ever have the strength to give him up_ , and finally thinks that he does not care, anymore, truly, for if he has Hamilton as his, he should want for nothing, and if this should end with his damnation, perhaps damnation should be worth it.

  
Though Laurens should wish to prolong these touches as much as possible in the open air, their sudden tryst is interrupted by the banging of a door opening, and Meade yelling:   
  
“Hamilton! Laurens! Where be you? A man of certain French origin is returned to us!”   
  
And they break apart with a terrified leap, straightening cravats and ribands, smoothing coats and hair, casting panicked glances over swollen, bitten lips.   
  
Meade rounds their corner of wall just as they appear somewhat fixed, and stops, stares a moment, for Laurens does not doubt they shift as though caught engaging in some misconduct—which they were, of course.   
  
Meade frowns, regards them suspiciously. He holds up a hand. “I shall not ask; doubtlessly, I should not wish to know what manner of mischief you two embark upon.” His frown subsides. “Unless, of course, it be a plan to irritate Reed in some manner, in which case, I would ask eagerly of all details.”   
  
“Unfortunately, Sir,” Hamilton begins, light and teasing. “It be about how we should best irritate you instead, and so no details may be shared.”   
  
Meade harrumphs, then grins. “Ah, but I do not care, for this a great day, now. Come! Our French friend asks enthusiastically of you both, in almost the same breath he uses to greet the rest of us.”  
  
As they follow Meade rapidly, excitedly, back to the house, Laurens hisses at Hamilton:   
  
“I think we may seem unable to engage in this without recklessness.”   
  
Hamilton, for his part, only grins slyly, replies: “With us both so reckless men, it seems unlikely we should manage that, this be true. Still—” he pauses, seems to check if Meade listens, lowers tone even further. “Once I make my return, perhaps we may secure some privacy—see what such recklessness should lead to then.”   
  
And Laurens can only flush at such images, Hamilton laying on a bed—  
  
He shakes his head, rolls his shoulder to inspire distracted pain, calls to Meade, asking questions of Lafayette’s return.

***

When Hamilton and Gibbs ride, for Albany and Morristown respectively, though Laurens should now have Lafayette once more for company, his heart feels both empty and full, the gaping all the worse for it laying unacknowledged out of necessity.   
  
This, as when farewells are given out, Laurens should want to pull Hamilton to him, kiss him, whisper asks of safety and return; instead, he may only raise a hand as the other aides do, and watch as he pulls away into the distance.   
  
Still, Hamilton has promised Washington an absence of no more than three weeks.   
  
Surely, Laurens can manage so short a parting as that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laurens! You idiot! :p
> 
> Are Hamilton and Tallmadge alluding to the eventual formation of the Culper Ring? Mayyyybe. It’s a piece of history I find fascinating, so I tend to slip in mentions of it where I can. 
> 
> I don’t know exactly when this war council took place (I’ve probs made it take place a bit early) but it was around this time, given when Hamilton sets off for Albany—likewise, I’ve messed slightly with dates for Lafayette’s return, but oh well :D
> 
> Also, Rush did grumble about Hamilton as quoted in this, but Laurens probably wouldn’t have heard about it from Tallmadge as he does here. But, you know, creative license ;)
> 
> And y’all, I know this is only chapter 9, but my God I can’t *wait* to post chapter 11 ;) (dw, chapter 10 is great fun too, just for different ~French~ reasons!)
> 
> Letter excerpts/quotes from:   
> -“Correspondence between Hon. Henry Laurens and his son John, 1777-1780: Letter of 16th October 1777” https://www.jstor.org/stable/27575094  
> -“The Young Hamilton” by James T Flexner


	10. A Lengthened Separation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, hope your week has been alright! :)
> 
> You may have noticed I still haven’t put the number of intended chapters! Sorry about that, but here’s the thing: I currently have a working estimate of about 20 to 25ish chapters, but almost every time I write a chapter, things get moved around, so it’s really hard to know for sure atm! Basically, it could be around 20-25, a little more or a little less? Hopefully I can be more certain about it soon :)
> 
> Thanks for tuning in each week, it means a lot <3 
> 
> Enjoy!

_George Emlen House  
Whitemarsh Township   
November 2nd – December 11th 1777_

November, it seems, should be a strange month indeed, and its strangeness begun with a double event: that of Laurens’ father, and of Reed.  
  
On the matter of his father (which Laurens learns of not two days post Hamilton’s departure for Albany, and the army’s move to Whitemarsh) it transpires that John Hancock has resigned as President of Congress and as such, Henry Laurens is now elected to that office.   
  
This makes Laurens himself now the son of the President of the Continental Congress, and that—well. He should certainly manage this change in his father’s status better if he had Hamilton with him to reassure, to speak with on the subject.   
  
It is not as though the rest of the aides-de-camp treat him any differently, for truly, most had suspected Henry Laurens should end up in this position eventually anyhow, but—any correspondence Laurens now receives from his father, he receives from the President. Any words he passes between Washington and he, he passes between the Commander-in-Chief and the President.   
  
It all feels as though the stakes have been heightened, and Laurens’ role as an unwilling go between suddenly just as important as his role in the aide’s office, and—well, he should dislike _that_ prospect immensely.   
  
Still, though his father often displeased with most of the Congressmen, and not best pleased with the position itself because of this, at least there should now be one in such a position that speaks for Washington’s command, rather than against it.   
  
The second event of strangeness that begins the month containing Hamilton’s absence concerns that of one rather ill-tempered member of Washington’s staff: the irascible Joseph Reed.   
  
The morning after their arrival at Whitemarsh, and the Emlen House that is now made headquarters, finds all the aides—bar Reed—grumbling through morning dispatches, sorting out who might be assigned which terribly dull report on ammunition replenishment, which gloom inducing report on the state of the army’s clothing and food.  
  
Laurens has been landed with further French translation, which he minds not, as his French be so much improved by this point that the work requires very little effort on his part.   
  
As he begins trying to decipher one particularly scrappily written line, the General himself steps into their office, scanning the room.   
  
“Tilghman?” he asks sharply; Tilghman’s head shoots up so fast it almost a surprise he does not behead himself in the process.   
  
“Aye, Sir?”   
  
Washington holds out a hand. “Have you the reports on the likelihood of ammunition at Fort Mifflin lasting these next few weeks?”   
  
Tilghman scrambles under the many papers scattering his desk. “I do have it, Sir, I were about to bring it—ah! Here.” He holds out several pages.   
  
Washington nods, takes them gratefully. “Have you begun the report on the same at Mercer?”   
  
Tilghman’s eyes widen. “I have not yet—”   
  
Fitzgerald steps in, brandishing another stack of papers. “I have it, Sir; Harrison thought it better they were worked on simultaneously.”   
  
Tilghman’s face creases with obvious relief as the General chuckles. “I ought never to doubt the efficiency of my office.” He glances round again. “Ah; I see Reed has already departed.”  
  
There is a confused silence.   
  
Meade is the first to break it. “Departed, Sir?”  
  
The General frowns. “Indeed; he did not mention this?”   
  
Harrison clears his throat awkwardly. “He mentioned he may not have the time for proper farewells; I assured him I would attend to such, but have not yet had the time—”   
  
Washington only nods. “It is fine, Harrison, it matters not. Explain when you will.” His gaze lands on the sorted piles of letters received this morn. “No word yet from Hamilton or Gibbs?”   
  
“No, Sir,” Meade confirms. “I doubt they shall write for a while yet; likely still being on horseback at present.”   
  
Washington makes a noise of frustration. “If there be any further reports on how the Forts hold, you shall bring them to me immediately?”  
  
“Yes, Sir,” Harrison assures. “Certainly.”   
  
Washington sweeps from the office then, and the gaze of every aide lands square upon Harrison, who only sighs, waves a tired hand.   
  
“It slipped my mind this morn; I apologise.”   
  
“It slipped your mind,” repeats Meade incredulously. “It slipped your mind to mention the most difficult of us all has departed?”   
  
“How?” demands Tilghman. “Surely that be the first thing you should speak on!”   
  
Laurens grins. “Reed may seem easy to forget.”   
  
Fitzgerald laughs so much at Laurens’ rash statement that he begins to choke on his coffee; this distracts the aides another few minutes, as Fitzgerald gradually regains control of his breathing through persistent chuckles, coughs out:   
  
“Laurens, you—you fiend!”   
  
Meade is smiling widely. “I see Hamilton’s influence on you clear! You speak such as he might usually.”   
  
Laurens feels a little less cheerful, at that, contemplates how he shall not see Hamilton’s fiery hair enter a room with temper for near three weeks.   
  
Harrison is frowning. “This all feels rather discourteous, gentlemen.”   
  
“Discourteous,” snorts Tilghman. “Ha! If we are that, it is only because we have learnt such behaviour from Reed himself.”   
  
Harrison only frowns deeper. “He were not so disagreeable as all that; I merely think he were perhaps rather awkward in dealing with quick-witted rogues such as yourselves.”   
  
All sober a bit, at this, and Laurens finds himself feeling a little remorseful.   
  
He bites the inside of his cheek. “Ah—I apologise. I did not truly know the man, I suppose, except to know that he disliked me.”   
  
Harrison’s frown lifts at this; his eyes suddenly glint with mischief. “He did not dislike you, really, Laurens; only that you are so fond of Hamilton.”  
  
Meade rolls his eyes. “Hamilton and Reed were a pair that should always rub one another the wrong way, I think.”  
  
“One cannot fault Hamilton too harshly,” Tilghman points out. “I feel Reed did invite some animosity there. Besides which, I do believe he disliked me also.”   
  
“Of course,” Fitzgerald agrees. “For you also rather difficult to work with.”   
  
Tilghman gapes theatrically. “Sir! You must take such insult as that back!”   
  
As Tilghman and Fitzgerald continue to trade teases, Laurens raises his voice above them, curious.   
  
“Why has Reed departed so?”   
  
Harrison shrugs, eyes already turned back to his work. “For Congress. He were elected a delegate for Pennsylvania some time ago, and now feels he ought to be present there. He were a volunteer, here, after all; he owes the army nothing, truly.”   
  
Tilghman subsides from arguing with Fitzgerald. “And why does he offer us no farewell?”   
  
Harrison makes a face. “I do not think he believes he shall be much missed, except by myself, perhaps.”   
  
Meade tilts his head. “I think I should feel bad for that, but cannot.” He grins. “So, there be no unfortunate scandal involved in his leaving? How greatly disappointing.”   
  
Harrison only huffs, unimpressed. “No, Meade. There be no scandal to speak of.”   
  
Tilghman appears amused once more. “Except, perhaps, for when Reed once wrote General Lee unfavourably of Washington, and Washington read the letter containing such.”   
  
“No!” Meade exclaims gleefully. “Tilghman! How can you have hidden such a delicious fact from us?”   
  
Harrison puts down quill, crosses his arms. “I instructed him not to speak of it; it were a year or so ago now, and if the General should still trust Reed in this office, so should we all.”   
  
Tilghman looks slightly apologetic. “In any case, he has left us now, it seems; I wish him well in Congress.”   
  
“Aye,” agrees Meade. “So well, I should hope, that he may not desire to come back at all.”   
  
“Meade!” Laurens finds himself rebuking, perhaps on behalf of his own guilty conscience. “Be not so harsh, Sir!”  
  
Meade only smirks. “You ought to write Hamilton; inform him of the good news.”   
  
Laurens only shakes his head, returns his gaze to his translation work.   
  
His father now President of the Continental Congress, and Reed gone.   
  
How truly he wishes he could jest with Hamilton on such.   
  


Their work is interrupted once more, sometime past noon, by an indignant shout; Tilghman brandishes a letter in rather bad temper, glaring at the paper as though it has personally offended him.  
  
“What now, Tilghman?” Harrison’s temper seems rather ill today, Laurens notes; it has only gotten worse since the Reed discussion of the morn. “Why must you always speak at such unnecessary volume?”   
  
Tilghman raises his eyebrows at the unusual temperament displayed, but does not remark upon it.   
  
“You know my countenance incapable of quiet tone by now, surely.”   
  
Harrison only rolls his eyes.   
  
“In any case,” Tilghman continues. “You shall all feel as incensed as I in a moment.”  
  
Laurens lays down quill, stretches. His shoulder pulls unpleasantly where it were wounded, but does not hurt overly much—a great improvement.   
  
“Oh?” he asks, curiousity piqued.   
  
Tilghman waves the apparently offensive letter. “James Wilkinson is promoted to Brigadier General!”  
  
Laurens frowns. The name sounds familiar, but he cannot quite place it. “Wilkinson?” he asks, at the same time Meade shoots to his feet in anger.   
  
“Wilkinson? Promoted you say? For what?”   
  
“Who is Wilkinson?” Laurens insists.   
  
Fitzgerald appears to take pity on his ignorance. “One of General Gates’ aides-de-camp. A Brigadier General now, it seems.”   
  
If a man could explode from upset, Meade might. “What has that man done, except tarry so long delivering news of the Saratoga surrender that Congress already knew of it before he arrived?”   
  
Laurens knows promotions—and those that may not deserve them—to be a subject of great debate in this army; often granted for political reasons, rather than actual merit.   
  
“If he took so long to deliver such a message,” Laurens remarks dryly, sarcastically, “Perhaps what he really deserved was a new horse.”  
  
Meade snorts, seems to deflate. “Aye, indeed.” He shakes his head. “It does frustrate me so when men of far better character are overlooked, simply because it should please one as Gates.”  
  
Tilghman nods, puts the letter down with a look of disgust. “It should take one as capable as _notre ami_ , Lafayette, fighting in battle with a musket ball wound to his leg to earn the command he now holds, but Wilkinson must simply ride a horse—badly—and receive such, as Gates wills it.”   
  
Harrison makes a displeased sound under his breathe. “One hopes Hamilton will not cross paths with Wilkinson now.”   
  
Meade chuckles wryly. “Indeed. I shudder to think of it.”   
  
Laurens frowns. “But why should Gates want Wilkinson promoted anyhow, when he has performed no such remarkable service?”   
  
Tilghman glares at his desk, as though it at fault for this news. “Oh, I should think he wishes to lord over us; demonstrate how apt his office in comparison to ours, for they win battles and promotions, and we only shoulder defeats.”  
  
“I do not like it,” Harrison suddenly pronounces, quite dourly. “That Gates should compel Congress so—I worry they, too, are beginning to look on him more favourably than they look upon His Excellency.”   
  
He exchanges what feels a knowing glance with Laurens, and Laurens thinks that Harrison should also be aware of some things being said in Congress, as he is.   
  
He desperately wishes his could discuss such with Hamilton; worries over what Hamilton has been sent to achieve, when Gates seems like to taunt them at every opportunity.   
  


***

As time ticks over into the second week of November, the strangeness of the month appears set to continue.   
  
With Hamilton absent, and this absence felt keenly by all—not just Laurens, though his feelings on the subject be somewhat unique in comparison, of course—much of Washington’s more personal correspondence falls into the hands of the other aides-de-camp.   
  
It is not that Hamilton be the only man trusted to read such, just that he usually the only one authorised to answer it without consulting the General (though Harrison sometimes may do so) which should mean that he reads most of it by default.   
  
Now, all must help out, spreading these letters evenly across already heaping piles of paper stacked haphazardly on desks.  
  
As such, Laurens finds himself opening a letter dated the sixth, delivered with this morning’s dispatch, and writ to Washington in Hamilton’s hand.   
  
The relief he feels at holding words crafted so by Hamilton, to know he fares well, is in no danger—he should feel weak at the knees, clutches the paper marked by Hamilton’s hand so tight it near crumples.   
  
Laurens scans the lines avidly.  
  
 _—I arrived here yesterday at Noon and waited upon General Gates immediately on the business of my mission; but was sorry to find his ideas did not correspond with yours for drawing off the number of troops you directed_ —  
  
What? Hamilton were in Albany by the fifth? Surely this not possible!  
  
Laurens calculates how many miles must be covered on such a journey as that; indeed, this must mean—  
  
“Sixty miles a day!” In his absolute surprise, he exclaims such aloud.   
  
The scratching quills of his fellow aides cease.  
  
“Laurens?” queries Meade. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”   
  
Laurens grins; his heart be so considerably lightened to hold Hamilton’s words in hand, he cares not how frenzied he may appear. “Not at all! Only, Hamilton is arrived safe, in Albany.” He waves the glad letter he reads.  
  
Meade blinks. “So quick?” His tone sounds shocked. “He must have ridden akin to a mad man.”   
  
Tilghman laughs. “Ah, but you forget—our Hammie _is_ a mad man, so this surely not a surprise.”   
  
Meade smirks. “No, indeed.”   
  
Harrison’s gaze suddenly flicks across to Laurens, sharp. “How goes it with Gates?”  
  
Laurens winces, quickly reads the rest of the letter. “I think the General should wish to read this immediately.”   
  
Harrison stands, hand outstretched. “What says he?” he demands.   
  
Laurens frowns. “It seems Gates is violently opposed to offering us anything more than one brigade, and Hamilton writes…” He pauses, frowns further. “He worries that should we take more than Gates offers, and subsequently something untoward occurs, Gates may use his influence to suggest we deliberately seek to sabotage his efforts, since he so far is victorious where our campaign is not.”  
  
A heavy silence falls.   
  
Tilghman is gaping. “That is—why, Laurens, that is—damn it!” He slams his fist down upon the desk.  
  
Laurens only hums unhappily in agreement. “It does seem as though Hamilton has secured troops from General Putnam for us, however—we should have some further reinforcement, at least.”  
  
Harrison is grimacing, expression dark, as he brandishes several pieces of new correspondence, also from today’s dispatch. “I, too, have received uneasy news, on several fronts, in fact; I ought to go straight to His Excellency with such at that, and Hamilton’s writings.”   
  
Laurens passes him Hamilton’s letter; a small, selfish part within him does not wish to hand it over, when it should be tangible evidence Hamilton fares well.  
  
  
It seems Harrison be personally entwined in ill events, though not because he has wished to be so; he is caught in the whims of others’ machinations.  
  
This, as it appears there be not just unhappy whispers in Congress, or incautious grumbling among some Generals, as Henry Laurens has so suggested previously.   
  
Indeed, such as these should exist also, but further than that, there now seems real opposition to Washington’s command brewing.   
  
Congress has finally instated a semi-permanent Board of War, as the General himself has suggested ought to be done many times afore now; however, this done in a manner that should set such an entity against Washington, instead of it working alongside him.   
  
Similarly, the General has previously proposed appointing an Inspector General of foreign birth to assist in establishing a drill system for the army; again, this now having passed through Congress in a manner seeming almost to spite him.  
  
Laurens finds such actions can be summarised thus:   
  
This Board of War being created to outrank even the Commander-in-Chief: that the first strike against the General’s command.   
  
The Inspector General being appointed not only to drill and advise on technical skills, but to supervise Washington’s commands and acts, and report on them to the Board: that the second strike against the General’s command.   
  
Worse, Washington’s staff should know none of this, and still know not the key players, but for Harrison. He, it turns out, has received an offer, in writing, of a place on the board. He immediately declines such, of course, and goes straight to Washington with what he may know.  
  
Harrison believes the men behind the creation of the Board of War in this manner are Richard Henry Lee, a congressman whose opposition to Washington is well documented, and Thomas Mifflin, the Continental Army’s own former Quartermaster, who resigned when Washington should offer him no further commission.   
  
That such a move has passed through Congress unimpeded bodes increasingly ill, and that Laurens has not yet received word on it from his father, even worse.   
  
The other piece of unpleasant news Harrison receives that morn concerns correspondence from General Lord Stirling to Washington.   
  
“‘The enclosed’,” Meade reads later the next day, after the General has been so informed of all that transpires, and commissioned any such replies he wills, “‘Was communicated by Colonel Wilkinson’—not that fool of a man again—‘to Major MacWilliams, such wicked duplicity of conduct I shall always think it my duty to detect.’”  
  
Meade raises both his eyebrows as he concludes this portion. “Good Lord, Harrison, what did Stirling have the misfortune to overhear?”   
  
“Keep reading,” Harrison replies wearily. “It only grows worse.”   
  
Meade passes the letter to Tilghman, who continues with it in a theatrical tone. “‘In a letter from General Conway to General Gates, he says: _Heaven has been determined to save your country; or a weak General and bad Counsellors would have ruined it_.’”   
  
Dismayed silence falls as all take this in.   
  
Laurens feels himself grow rapidly angry, fist clenching around his quill so that he blots his current work, swears under his breathe.   
  
In an almost childish game of whispers, Stirling has overheard Wilkinson speak of a letter General Thomas Conway wrote Gates, in which the disrespect shown Washington is—well, utterly shameful at best, and words among men who share in a conspiracy, at worst.   
  
It certainly seems as though Gates may impede Hamilton on purpose, though there is little any of them can do to assist when they here, and Albany so far north.   
  
  
As all this is occurring, Laurens’ father continues to write him on many a score; some political, to be sure, but most personal, which Laurens should dislike immensely.   
  
He feels there be too much taking place at any one time to understand anything adequately, and should feel constantly as though there be some task he has forgotten, some worry he has neglected to anticipate.   
  
His father writes and begs him of many things: that he might come to York, where Congress now sits, and continue to convalesce under his care (though honestly, Laurens finds himself fairly well recovered anyhow) and also, that he might bring his wife and child out to America.   
  
Laurens refuses on all counts, of course: convalescing with his father should prove unbearable and worse, may mean he is prevented from returning to army life. Further, he will certainly not bring his wife out, for he be unable to bear the true affection she seems to grow for him, nor the new daughter he now has, whose being brought forth into this world under hopes Laurens may stifle his sinful preferences—a lost hope—began this entire mess of a marriage.  
  
No, for he should want only Hamilton; he be now fully resigned to this truth.   
  
It is Hamilton his heart aches for, Hamilton whose body he misses and desires, only Hamilton—Hamilton— _Hamilton_.   
  
He hopes Hamilton is also plagued by him in the same fashion, but distance such as this breeds ugly doubt, and he begins to believe it so unlikely to be true that one such as he should hold the attention of one such as Hamilton for long, no matter what Hamilton may have assured before he departed.

***

It has been said that misery should always seek similar company; this being a cliché Laurens has heard many a time, and it appears to hold true this month. The initial strangeness of November gives way to more and more ill fortune, and each new thing should seem more dire than the last.  
  
Firstly, the weather grows colder and colder, as though any warmth has been drained from the air in Hamilton’s absence, which reaches past its two-week mark, no matter how quick his initial ride north were undertaken.   
  
Laurens knows himself to hate cold weather with indiscriminate passion, but now, it almost seems the lesser of all the disasters that befall them.  
  
These disasters be spread across the latter weeks of November, Hamilton’s absence growing longer and longer as each day passes.   
  
The misfortunes begin thusly: General Putnam’s promised troops are not sent when he pledged, and Gates’ one brigade has not reached their campaign either; Hamilton’s letters informing them he must ride back and forth, argue much, achieve less than he wills.   
  
By the seventeenth, this should mean that desperate word reaches headquarters: the siege is ended, and Fort Mifflin has fallen to the British.  
  
Further, all such frenzied riding that has been required of Hamilton due to unwilling Generals and meddling politics must take a tole, and by the eighteenth, two separate letters finally reach headquarters from him.   
  
These be assigned to Tilghman’s pile that morn, and as he reads such, colour appears to drain from his face.   
  
“ _Mon Dieu_ ,” he mutters, and all look up at his uneasy tone.  
  
“Tilghman?” Meade queries carefully. “Are you well?”   
  
Tilghman only shakes his head. “I am fine; it is Hammie who is not.”   
  
Laurens feels himself go cold. When he speaks, he takes great care that his voice may not waver.  
  
“Sir?”  
  
Tilghman winces, reads: “‘I have been detained here these two days by a fever and violent rheumatic pains throughout my body.’ Ham were quite ill, it seems; this dated the twelfth.”  
  
He glances round the room, expression anxious. “His second letter, only three days later: ‘I arrived at this place last night and unfortunately find myself unable to proceed any further. Imagining I had gotten the better of my complaints while confined at Governor Clinton’s and anxious to be about’—stubborn fool! He makes himself ill worse; it seems he be confined to bed at Peeks Kill, in the home of one Dennis Kennedy, and still writes of what troops he may send, what Generals he attempts to wrangle them from!”   
  
Meade makes an unhappy sound. “But we may suppose this should mean he at least be well enough to write such?”   
  
Harrison is frowning deeply. “I think even were Hamilton at death’s door, he should insist on writing; this not a particularly reliable indicator of his health.”  
  
Laurens can say nothing at all; his breath feels caught in his throat. He thinks if he should speak on the subject of Hamilton, feelings may tumble out his mouth, incriminate him.   
  
Instead, he holds up his own dire correspondence. “It seems we may soon lose Fort Mercer also; I shall take this to the General and tell him of Hamilton.”   
  
Meade’s brow creases; he pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Laurens notices how tired he appears. “One blow after another; it should feel as though we be afforded no good fortune at all.”   
  
Harrison sighs, merely nods at Laurens. “Aye, go to it.” He glances at Meade. “In a war where we are up against such a superior force…” He trails away, shrugs unhappily. “Well.”   
  
Fitzgerald slams his fist down upon the desk, then lets his head fall heavily into his hands—he has worked somewhat on the accounts in Gibbs’ absence. “And now it seems we shall soon run out of means with which to clothe our soldiers.”  
  
Tilghman’s mouth draws into a hard line. “Ammunition lacks severely also.”   
  
Laurens stands, holds hand out for Hamilton’s letters, which Tilghman wearily passes over.   
  
“I shall be back shortly,” he promises, and escapes out the office door.  
  
As he strides down the corridor to Washington’s office, he cannot stop his mind wandering to Hamilton, fearing on his condition, hoping their letters now outdated, and he well once more.  
  
Oh, what he should give to hold him in his arms!   
  
The General is peering angrily at some map when Laurens knocks, and is granted entry.  
  
“Ah, Laurens.” Washington does not stand, only gestures Laurens to step closer. “Be there any news of Fort Mercer in today’s dispatches?”   
  
Laurens grimaces. “Aye, Sir, but—it is not good news.”  
  
Washington’s expression only hardens; now he does stand. “It rarely is at present. What says Colonel Greene?”   
  
This Greene in command of Mercer is not the same man as General Greene, of course; there be too many men of the same name in their army, it seems.  
  
Laurens hands the letter over. “Greene writes that some scouts have spotted Cornwallis and near two thousand men positioned at Chester, readying to cross.” Here, Laurens hesitates. “He fears—he fears they may have to surrender the Fort, but plans to destroy the magazine and supplies before the British should take it.”   
  
“Damnation!” Washington swears, slams both palms against the desk.   
  
Laurens almost jumps. He has heard tell of the General’s great temper, most often kept severely controlled, and it is something fearful to witness.   
  
“Is there to be no end to our failures here?”   
  
Laurens senses this not a question the General actually expects him to answer, so stays silent.  
  
Washington’s gaze lands on his face, narrowed and angry. “Well? Is that all you have at present?”  
  
Laurens merely holds out Hamilton’s letters; he does not think he can give words to what is contained within. “Hamilton has written.”  
  
Washington takes the papers briskly, eyes scanning the lines rapidly. All of a sudden, the anger seems to drain out his body, and he slumps back down into his chair, hand to forehead.   
  
“Must Hamilton always find it necessary to threaten death?”   
  
Again, Laurens feels this requires no answer—he is mistaken.   
  
“Well?” Washington insists.   
  
Laurens is not sure what he should say, except: “I do not know, Sir, but I should wish he did not.”  
  
Washington’s mouth almost finds a smile. “I should wish the same.” He glances back down at the letters he holds. “These are most recent? Only…much can happen in four days.”   
  
Laurens is awfully, painfully aware of this; his heart should constrict further each time he contemplates just how much may have already changed since Hamilton wrote. “They are, Sir.”  
  
Washington places them down beside the map; does not return them to Laurens for reply as would be usual.   
  
As Laurens takes his leave of the General’s office, closes the door, he sees Washington pick up the letters again, a fond, worried look on his face that should seem out of place to his character—  
  
Hamilton may not regard His Excellency as anyone but an army superior, but Laurens thinks the General should feel something more tender than that towards his youngest aide.   
  
  
Where this might feel more than enough calamity to be bestowed upon one campaign in a single month, whatever hand fate has erstwhile dealt them must feel otherwise, for each new day should dawn colder and with it, herald more bad news.  
  
On the twenty-second, Washington issues an order: Whomever can find the best substitute for shoes using raw hide by nine o-clock two days hence, shall be awarded ten dollars.   
  
This should reflect the worsening state of their army, and the wellbeing of their men, that a substitute for shoes as this should be so desperately desired.   
  
It also means many different raw hides be suddenly found without welcome at headquarters—some appearing more convincingly like shoes than others.   
  
The smell of such invades their space, even when the door to their office be kept tightly closed, and this creates an atmosphere of ill temper, as the smell may be akin to meat, when there is barely any meat to be had.   
  
Tilghman jokes Hamilton better off where he is, sick or no, and honestly, this likely true; he should need hearty food for recovering from such a fever, and they seem no longer able to provide that here.  
  
Still, they know not if Hamilton still suffers, as they have heard nothing more from him; Laurens cannot tell if this bodes well, or whether he ought to worry more upon the subject.   
  
Ha! That should suggest he worries not, and that so far from the truth, he might laugh.   
  
In fact, he worries so constantly that Harrison has now rebuked him several times for not paying attention when the General briefs them, or staring into space when he ought to be writing.   
  
“We all worry for Hamilton,” Harrison actually remarks one day, far too astutely for Laurens’ comfort. “But he shall not write us quicker for it; I would suggest you turn your thoughts to other matters.”  
  
And Laurens earnestly tries, he does, if only so that the others may not query on the depth of his distress.   
  
But he cannot stop his mind from imagining Hamilton lying cold, silent, still, as White did so upon the field at Germantown, and when he thinks of his Alexander’s heated eyes closed forever so—he should want to curl up in his sheets and weep, as a child might.   
  
On the twenty-third, they receive news that Fort Mercer has fallen also.   
  
This should mean there be no significant American presence barring the British from moving supplies into Philadelphia via the Delaware, nor to stop them from replenishing their troops, and so the way now wide open for them to happily stay camped in Philadelphia with no threat.  
  
Washington rages properly that day; Laurens hears shouts and swears when Harrison brings him the news, and the poor man returns with rather his own ill-temper, snapping so at Meade and Tilghman’s teasing one another, that both men decide to remove themselves for a while and work from the bedrooms instead.   
  
None of these frayed tempers are improved when Laurens receives a warning from his father via letter on the twenty-fourth.   
  
Congress has appointed Gates as the President of the Board of War, and Conway, who wrote so ill of Washington in Wilkinson’s secretly seen letter, as the Inspector General.   
  
This means that, effectively, both these men now have sway over what the General may and may not do with his command; a further, irrefutable blow to His Excellency’s standing in Congress.  
  
Laurens writes angrily in reply, for how should Congress expect Washington to maintain order and authority when they will not even stand behind him? How should they think the army able to continue its campaign, when Congress can offer no further supplies, no further ammunition, cannot even appoint a competent Quartermaster in Mifflin’s vacated place?   
  
And further, what does it indicate, when Conway, a man who speaks so dishonourably of their Commander-in-Chief, should be elevated so above Washington?  
  
Matters grow so bad, they already fear the resignation of many officers who support Washington and are angered by Congress’ previous ploys; once this becomes well known, the issue shall only increase, and what should Congress do then?  
  
Laurens knows his father likely just as displeased as he, by his written tone, but if this the case, he must do something! He must defend Washington’s command from such backhanded scheming.  


And then—as if another blow must be called for when they already on their knees—a letter arrives from Gibbs at headquarters with the morn’s dispatch of the twenty-fifth.   
  
Unfortunately, it is Laurens who receives it in his pile of correspondence. Unfortunate, because any of the other aides would not be so awfully effected, perhaps.   
  
Laurens opens it as he walks to his desk, believing it likely to be some sort of report on the adequacy of the supplies in Morristown, and so is unprepared for its true contents.   
  
He notices the location it were writ from— _Peeks Kill_ —and frowns. Why should Gibbs be found there?  
  
The letter begins:   
  
— _I wrote Colo. Harrison on the 21st Ulto from Morristown—_ (where be that letter? They have not yet received such)— _informing him of the disagreeable piece of intelligence which I had that day received, of the Illness of Colo. Hamilton, and of my intention to set out immediately for Peeks Kill with all possible dispatch_ —  
  
Oh no.   
  
No.   
  
It be now, what, two weeks since the initial news of Hamilton’s illness reached then? For Gibbs to have received word again of it now, and been so concerned that he has travelled to Peeks Kill himself…  
  
Laurens reluctantly keeps reading.  
  
His gaze catches on phrases—  
  
— _I found Colo. Hamilton much worse than I expected, labouring under a violent nerves fever, and raging to the greatest extremity, he continued through the day, and last night very ill—  
  
_ And he finds himself collapsing into his chair, breathe lost somewhere in the meantime, chest so tight that his vision begins to spot.   
  
— _Colo. Hamilton bears his sickness with becoming fortitude but is confident he shall not survive long—  
  
_ What?   
  
No!   
  
He cannot—this cannot be—Hamilton cannot be threatening death _again_.   
  
And he so confident to chide Laurens when he were injured at Germantown!   
  
Laurens drops the letter to the desk top, blinks; the happy chattering of the other aides washes over him in a strange, undulating wave, approaching and receding as he struggles to find breath, push through this crushing panic that threatens to overwhelm all senses.   
  
Meade is in front of his desk now, but how he got there, and when, that a mystery.   
  
“Laurens?” Meade questions, hesitantly reaching for the letter lying so conspicuously on the desk. “What—what news?”   
  
Laurens blinks again, focuses his eyes upon Meade’s concerned face, manages a breath in and out.   
  
His vision slowly seeps back in.   
  
When he finally finds voice, he be equally proud, and alarmed, to find it does not shake—this mask complete.  
  
“Gibbs writes that Hamilton is dying; that Hamilton himself believes he has not long left to live.”   
  
These words fall as cannon balls might, destroying any illusion of peace they may labour under.   
  
Tilghman’s eyes are wide and fearful. “He— _What_?”   
  
“Here.” Laurens holds the letter out to Meade; his arm feels oddly heavy, as though forced to move through battlefield mud, thick with the blood of the dying.   
  
Meade takes it, scans the ink. His mouth draws into a hard line, creases around his eyes deepening.   
  
“This is grave news indeed.”   
  
Tilghman has bolted from his chair, snatches the letter. “Gibbs says the doctor believes the next three or so days crucial—Ham may yet live!”  
  
Harrison is watching the agitated meeting in front of Laurens’ desk wearily. “It be never a good sign when the patient themselves appears to have given up the fight.”   
  
“No!” declares Meade angrily. “Hammie is not one to give up easy; Gibbs must be mistaken in judging his countenance so!”  
  
Fitzgerald’s expression is grave; he appears to pay no heed to the giant inkblot spreading over the current correspondence he works on. “If this true, Ham has been fighting the fever for over two weeks now; I say that be not giving up easy, Sir.”   
  
Tilghman seems like to tear the letter in his anxiety, and, unfairly, Laurens near despises him for this outburst of feeling.   
  
He may express such, for the ties between him and Hamilton are pure, and none would judge otherwise.   
  
Laurens, meanwhile, finds himself unduly fearful of demonstrating any such attachment now, in case it should reveal far too much about the impurity of his own relationship with Hamilton.   
  
Harrison stands tiredly, arms filled with paper. “I ought to go to the General with these; I shall inform him of Hamilton’s condition, if you should like?”   
  
He directs this question at Laurens; perhaps his mask not so good as he thinks.   
  
Laurens only nods at Harrison, once more sure that if he should speak, he may, in fact, scream, terror rising up his throat so that he should feel it thrumming a beat under his skin.   
  
As the door shuts on Harrison’s back, the aides are left standing, frozen, in the fearful positions they have taken up; Meade and Tilghman still before Laurens’ desk, staring blankly.   
  
Then, Meade reaches a hand to Laurens’ shoulder, squeezes lightly. He speaks in low tone, murmuring so that likely only Laurens may hear him.   
  
“I am sure he shall be fine; you know how determined his temperament to be.”   
  
And though the words think to offer comfort, the bleakness in Meade’s eyes should suggest him unconvinced of what he says, and this does nothing to help Laurens escape his own heavy, cloying dread.  
  
“I am sure,” is all he summons in reply.   
  
Meade squeezes his shoulder again; retreats.   
  
“I suppose one of us ought to inform the Marquis?” This Tilghman’s query; all the other aides nod and he quickly escapes the room.   
  
Laurens thinks Tilghman less wanting to find Lafayette particularly, and more wanting to escape the awful weight now hanging over their office.   
  


Laurens forces himself to remain seated at his desk, toil over how many men have fallen ill, how many have deserted, how many—  
  
Unbidden, those same terrible images of Hamilton rise behind his eyes; lips cold, eyes closed, unearthly stillness invading his limbs and he—he cannot concentrate any longer, no matter how impartial he may wish to appear.   
  
For at least, if Laurens were to have died post Germantown, he should have died in Hamilton’s arms, surrounded by Hamilton, with Hamilton having this last chance at farewell.   
  
If Hamilton dies now, he dies alone, shivering and suffering far from where Laurens may offer comfort, and he cannot bear it; if he informed of his death only by cold hearted paper and ink, how should he continue his work? Know that the last farewell they shared were in distanced friendship only, their last tryst interrupted by Meade?   
  
Know that he still has not summoned the courage to give words to the depth of _care_ he feels for Alexander?  
  
All of a sudden, he can sit in this office no longer.   
  
He rises abruptly from his desk.   
  
Meade glances up. “Laurens?”   
  
Laurens only feigns a stretch, lies: “I find my fingers quite cramped up; I shall be back momentarily.”  
  
He cares not at all if Meade believes this excuse to be true.  


Outside the Emlen house, Laurens shivers; a biting cold pinch invades the air now. Winter be truly on its way to torture them further.  
  
There is a large gathering of trees to the rear of the house, and Laurens slips into them, away from any possible prying eyes.   
  
He stands against a tree, staring off into the undergrowth, everything tinged grey and washed out by the overcast sky.   
  
He imagines Hamilton, lying in bed, still writing, always writing; then raving, his endless words turned to undecipherable madness, gibbering and sweating in his sheets.   
  
Any premature ending should feel entirely unjust for Hamilton, but this one particularly.   
  
A man so talented with words, unable to speak in a manner any can understand; a man so full of fire and recklessness, snuffed out by a battle fought and lost inside his own body, rather than upon a bloodied field.   
  
And Laurens here, far from his side.   
  
Does it not seem the Lord be determined they should approach death any time they reach an understanding on their shared affections? As though this the punishment threatened each time they decide these affections worth the sin they commit?  
  
Laurens slides down the tree, until he sits, back against it, head tilted up, eyes closed.  
  
He wraps his arms around his knees, listens to the wind whistle through the newly-barren branches.   
  
The chatter and noise from the house and the encampment beyond are faded so that he might pretend himself anywhere; his childhood home in Charleston, his days of study in Geneva, the despair of his time in London.   
  
He really ought to return to headquarters, but he finds his body unwilling to listen to his mind, can only imagine over and over again, receiving a letter, its scrawled ink screaming _Hamilton is dead_.   
  
Properly, verifiably _dead_ , unlike at Schuylkill.   
  
And so, he sits, air growing heavier and colder on his skin.   
  


Laurens knows not how long he has sat, when he hears footsteps approaching, snaps his eyes open.   
  
“Ah!” cries an accented voice he knows well. “Meade said you were to be found out here somewhere, _mon cher_ , but did not mention you hide behind trees as this.”   
  
Lafayette.   
  
Due to being assigned his own command, Lafayette has not been about headquarters this month as often as Laurens may like, unless some meeting be called.   
  
His _cher ami_ attempts to find time to visit Laurens where he can, but it be certainly no replacement for the companionship lost with Hamilton’s leaving.   
  
The times they have met, Lafayette has moaned incessantly about _leur trio le plus parfait_ , their most perfect trio, being split so time and time again; though Laurens does point out this were done by Lafayette and his getting shot, last time.   
  
“I do not _hide_ ,” he replies wearily.   
  
“ _Non_?” Now Lafayette is before him, smiling gently. He no longer has even a limp to remind of his injury. “Then why are you here so?”   
  
Laurens shakes his head, looks away. “I only desired some quiet.”  
  
“Hmm.” With a swift _plop_ Lafayette is sitting beside Laurens on the ground (surely not a fitting pose for a Major General?), head on Laurens’ good shoulder, and Laurens stiffens.  
  
“You desired some quiet _à cause du petit lion_ , _non_?”   
  
Laurens blinks, thinks to dispute—but this Lafayette, who likely worries just as much over their shared friend. If he cannot speak (somewhat) true to Lafayette, what be the point of this friendship?  
  
“ _Oui_. I do not like to think he may die, alone, while I am stuck here, and can do nothing.”  
  
Lafayette hums, head still resting on his shoulder. “I think he should not like to die away from you either, _mon cher_.”   
  
Laurens shrugs his shoulder slightly in annoyance. Lafayette lifts his head, but stays pressed up against Laurens’ side.   
  
“ _Quoi_? Do I speak untrue, Laurens?”   
  
Laurens only frowns. “Any man may not wish his friend to die far from such comfort.”  
  
Lafayette makes a dissatisfied noise. “If this the case, Hamilton has Gibbs, _n'est-ce pas_?”   
  
Laurens rolls his eyes. “You know that not the same.”   
  
“ _Non_?” Lafayette’s tone is deceptively light. “He is a friend, is he not? So, Hamilton does not suffer from absence of all friends, I think.”   
  
“He should not die!” Laurens suddenly explodes, unable to keep up this nonchalant play acting. “He should not die whether he has Gibbs, or you, or none. He cannot!”   
  
“ _Non_?” Again with that same tone, as though Lafayette purposely provokes. “I think that God’s choice, _oui_? Not ours; I am sure he will suffer or recover no matter what we say.”   
  
Laurens clenches his hands together, watches as his knuckles and fingertips go white, digs nails into skin.   
  
“He cannot die,” he croaks out, voice suddenly thick with unshed tears. “ _He cannot_.”  
  
Lafayette lays a hesitant hand over Laurens’, which he allows, for the moment.   
  
“Laurens,” Lafayette says quietly. “ _John_. What you mean to say, is that Hamilton cannot die away from _you_. Not me, not with Gibbs; this because you should miss him so, _non_? I do not know why you do not say so, to me, _ton cher ami_.”  
  
Laurens’ head shoots up; he meets Lafayette’s gaze. The level of understanding and sympathy within his young friend’s eyes should terrify him, and it does, utterly.   
  
“I—Of course I should miss him if he dies. We all should!”   
  
“ _Oui_ ,” Lafayette responds softly, squeezes Laurens’ hands. “Of course we should, _mon cher_. But you and Hamilton should miss one another uniquely if the other were to die. _N'est ce pas vrai_?” He pauses, watches Laurens carefully. “You forget, I were with you after Brandywine, in my tent, when Hamilton so spoke on his dislike of your recklessness; it were clear how he should feel if you were to perish. I think this the same. _Oui_?”   
  
Laurens has frozen, hands stuck under Lafayette’s, breath catching as it escapes and re-enters his lungs.   
  
_Uniquely_?   
  
_How he should feel?  
_  
What, exactly, does Lafayette mean to imply, with such as this?   
  
He cannot know—he cannot _know_.   
  
How can he?   
  
When last he saw them together proper, and left their campaign to recover from his injury, it were before Laurens and Hamilton had even acted upon any of these feelings themselves! How can he know _anything_?   
  
He must not!   
  
“I do not know what you imply, Lafayette,” Laurens finally says, cautiously, aware his tone is cold and aloof, but unable to fix this. “Certainly, Hamilton and I be particularly close friends, but I should not pretend myself more likely to miss him than any other.”  
  
Lafayette only raises an eyebrow, withdraws his hand, crosses his arms. “Hmm. _Non_ , I will not let this lie, _mon cher_. I say you be particular friends, _oui_ , but I say this particularity of _le vice italien_. Do I speak untrue? If so _je m'excuse sincèrement_ ; I withdraw any such words.”   
  
Laurens finds himself frozen, limbs stiff, heart stopped, colour draining from his face; imagines this colour seeping into the ground, towards damnation, towards his and Hamilton’s end.  
  
 _Le vice italien_.   
  
The Italian vice.   
  
How the French may refer to a man who engages in… _intimate_ affections with other men.  
  
Laurens may understand his and Hamilton’s feelings as pure, may tell himself what the world thinks matters not, but to be confronted here, by a dear friend no less, in how others may regard his and Hamilton’s affection—  
  
He can almost hear the creaking noise of a noose swinging waft eerily on the breeze.   
  
“Lafayette,” he tries, voice hoarse, quiet, pointed. “Sir, that is—” He breathes in sharp like, pain in his chest. “That is a weighty accusation to give words to, you understand this?”   
  
Lafayette blinks. His expression narrows, eyes tense. “Laurens, _mon cher_ , _non_ ; you misunderstand me, I think. I am not—I do not—I accuse you of no crime.”  
  
Laurens frowns. His hands shake, and he makes great effort to still them. “If that is not your intention,” he replies, sharp. “Then, if I were you, I should be very careful what words I choose, here, Sir.”  
  
Lafayette appears to slump. He shrugs. “Ah, I have said before, I lack in this language still; I am like to misunderstand the ways of the Americas also.”  
  
Laurens only presses his lips together. “I sense you have still more you do not say.”   
  
Lafayette huffs, almost appears to find the beginnings of a smile. “ _Oui_ , I think you should know me well, _mon cher_. I only mean to say…” Here, Lafayette grasps Laurens’ hand once more, fingers interlaced.   
  
Again, such affection as this from any man (barring Hamilton) should feel too familiar, far too improper, but it is not so with Lafayette.   
  
The Marquis continues, softly, gently. “I only mean to say…I should understand _l'affection proche_ you share with Hamilton to be—unique to that of the other aides. _Oui_? I have seen much in the French Court; I make no judgments about such as this. I only seek to offer comfort, to reassure, as _ton cher ami_ , as one who may understand why Hamilton’s illness should distress you more than others. You understand, Laurens?”   
  
Laurens thinks these words over carefully, focusing on the warm weight of Lafayette’s hand in his. To have such comfort as this offered—it should seem so impossible, so unlikely, that one should perhaps guess at his and Hamilton’s affections, and not seek to condemn them for it, but instead, offer a shoulder to lean upon.   
  
Laurens suddenly feels so overwhelmed by such as this, by all that occurs, by Hamilton’s deathly illness, by Lafayette’s sincere kindness; he must hold his breath in his aching chest to stop a childish wail escaping.   
  
He screws his eyes shut, swallows twice, forcefully. Then, he opens his eyes, lightly squashes Lafayette’s hand in his.   
  
“ _Oui, mon cher_. I understand perfectly,” Laurens whispers. He glances at Lafayette once, then away, unwilling to hold the man’s careful, all-encompassing gaze; the warmth and knowledge of it near too much to take. “I thank you for such words as these more than I am able to express, for such comfort offered as this I should never think to receive, nor believe I should deserve.”  
  
Lafayette carefully releases his hand, slings an arm over Laurens’ shoulder, careful to avoid placing too much weight upon his healing injury.   
  
“Why, _mon cher_ , I think you just as deserving of such care as any other man.”   
  
Laurens bites the inside of his cheek, pinches his own wrist to arrest pesky tears. “ _Merci_ ,” he murmurs, then clears his throat, says a little louder: “Though, I must add that I deny any such as you have so mentioned, and express only dear friendship towards Hamilton.”  
  
Lafayette snorts, rather inelegantly. “Ha, but of course you should.” He chuckles, clearly far more amused than such a grave topic of conversation warrants, in Laurens’ opinion. “And I should mention that were any other to ask of what we perhaps speak on, I will most heatedly deny any such conversation ever took place, _oui_?”   
  
“ _Oui_ ,” Laurens agrees, amused despite himself; it helps that Lafayette discusses such dire, discrete sins in such an open, unconcerned manner. “Though before we never speak on such again, I must ask: how?”   
  
Lafayette clearly understands the rest of the unspoken question, no matter how much he might sometimes protest his English skill lacking. He laughs sudden, loud, as though the ardent amusement has surprised even him.   
  
“How? Ha, Laurens, I must instead ask, how could I not?” He flicks a glance at Laurens, who knows his face flushes terribly. “One look at how the two of you were gazing upon each other…Ha! I think I myself were aware of such before even you two foolish men.”   
  
Then, Lafayette’s gaze sharpens, tone becoming unexpectedly serious. “I must add, however, that though I am happy that you find one another, I feel I must warn you on how careful you need truly be; I am not the only man in this army able to read clear emotions on faces.”   
  
Laurens sits up straighter, shrugs out of Lafayette’s one armed embrace. “We know this; we are not such fools as you think.”   
  
“Pah!” Lafayette gestures in a manner than conveys his scepticism at this. “I think you both more foolish than any I have known, but you are clever men; I think you may manage this, _non_?”   
  
Laurens only glares steadily away into the trees, refuses an answer.   
  
He knows how dangerous this entire undertaking is already! Lafayette need not remind him, as though he some reckless youth who does not know he dances with death.   
  
Were it not he who tried to dissuade Hamilton from the continuation of their affection time and time again? He knows, _damnation_ , but he knows!  
  
And whilst it may feel comforting not having to entirely conceal his fears and emotions from Lafayette on this subject, he cannot help but feel that it invites in another person who may yet reveal their crimes, unintentionally or no.   
  
“In any case,” Laurens attempts to steer the conversation into more socially accepted waters, “Regardless of what affection may, or may not, be involved, I should still worry on Hamilton’s illness immensely.”   
  
Lafayette sighs. “I do not think he dares to die without your presence, _mon cher_. I think him far too stubborn for such as that.”   
  
“Even so,” replies Laurens. “Even so.” He loses his train of thought; once more can only picture Hamilton’s still, cold face, devoid of breathe, and life, and feeling, and care.   
  
He shivers; tries to recall Hamilton’s weight against his skin, Hamilton’s breathe in his hair; the soft feel of Hamilton’s own hair wound between his fingers.   
  
“What if I am never to see him again?” Laurens whispers; the words out before he can even decide if he wishes them spoken, given sound.   
  
Lafayette wraps his arm around him once more, cautious, careful. “I do not think our dearest friend is yet done with the world of the living, Laurens, I truly do not. He has far too much he wishes to accomplish still, _non_? And he too stubborn to give up on such at that.”

***

November gives way to December, and Laurens thinks perhaps their bad luck may lift, but it seems not so.   
  
Though they do not lose the series of skirmishes the Continental Army engages in when Howe marches troops from Philadelphia to meet them—one last desperate attempt to destroy them before winter sets in proper—they do not win these, either.  
  
Winter steadily creeps up upon them, and it seems set to be a bad one, cold already beginning to threaten a bone stabbing chill.  
  
They lack supplies; they lack ammunition. Their men lack clothing, and they should not be able to continue any such campaign without losing most to starvation and cold before they even meet the British on the field.   
  
Armies usually retire to wait out such cold as this, though there be some in Congress who should wish them to push onwards.   
  
Laurens writes his father, in a manner almost as frenzied as Hamilton, with any such arguments that should help convince the dissenting Congressmen that winter quarters are of utmost necessity.   
  
A committee of delegates eventually visits the army encampment, sees the conditions for themselves, and find it most certainly required that the Continental Army should retire until the spring.  
  
These letters, and this work, helps to distract Laurens from worrying on Hamilton’s condition, though not entirely—they do receive word he seems over the worst, at least, and that perhaps this illness shall not be fatal after all.   
  
Laurens can only pray; can only hope God may listen to the prayers of men who sin as they do.  
  
The machinations of Gates and Conway unfortunately continue; when Gates receives correspondence from Washington on the matter of the overheard insults, he replies heatedly:   
  
— _Those letters have been stealingly copied; but, which of them, when, or by whom, is to me, as yet, an unfathomable secret_ —  
  
And seems to imply that Hamilton, perhaps, were so underhanded as to steal them from Wilkinson’s desk!   
  
Of course, Washington should know this untrue, as it were Stirling overhearing Wilkinson’s talk about the correspondence that so informed of him of it, and not any other; this should only make Gates look even worse, that he would attack one of the General’s men with such unfounded accusations—and expect to be believed.  
  
By the second week of December, a location for winter quarters is finally decided upon: Valley Forge.   
  
Eighteen miles northwest of Philadelphia, at the junction of Valley Creek and the Schuylkill River (a place Laurens be most unhappy to revisit), and located on high ground, the site should prove the best of those offered. It is defensible, secluded enough from popular areas that they may take note of those entering and exiting the camp’s vicinity, and not too far from Philadelphia.   
  
It should also require much construction if it is to last the winter and house what remains of their army.   
  


As Valley Forge begins to be established, right before Christmas, they receive word from both Gibbs, and Hamilton: the two of them have attempted to re-join headquarters once more, but Hamilton again collapses near Morristown from ill-health, and they are forced back to Peeks Kill so he may convalesce further.   
  
It does not seem they will now join them until after the New Year has greeted camp with desperation and hunger, if Hamilton should last to re-join them at all.   
  
News such as this distresses Laurens a great deal. It is clear Hamilton still does not recover properly, and is determined beyond the point of recklessness to continue his work (how _dare he_ accuse Laurens of such and then behave so!); he has now suffered this illness near over a month.   
  
Though Meade should attempt reassurance, and Lafayette also (though in a more pointed fashion), Laurens fears from within the very depths of his soul that Hamilton should perish before he may see him again; that he may suffer the ultimate punishment for their shared affections.   
  
Laurens finds that he begins to build a wall round his person once more, if only so that he may be shielded enough to prevent his entire self from crumbling should he never set eyes upon Alexander Hamilton again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Researchhh! The Conway Cabal confused me a lot but it was also super interesting to read about (kind of like a revolutionary army version of passing notes & high school gossip ngl), so there’s that.
> 
> The letters that Hamilton sent whilst in Albany are fascinating to read! I couldn’t include more of them in this, since the whole thing is sort of a background event, but I would definitely recommend reading them if you’re interested! 
> 
> And Lafayette, hey? ;)
> 
> Also, I could find NO dates about when, exactly, Reed left, but he is mentioned being elected to congress in late 1777, and was doing congress-y things by early 1778, so I feel like this timing was fine. 
> 
> Fun fact: Laurens being rude about Wilkinson needing a new horse is a thing that apparently actually happened as well XD
> 
> Letter excerpts from:   
> -“From Alexander Hamilton to George Washington, [6] November 1777” https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-01-02-0337   
> -“To George Washington from Major General Stirling, 3 November 1777” https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/03-12-02-0098  
> -“From George Washington to Brigadier General Thomas Conway, 5 November 1777” https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/03-12-02-0118  
> -“From Alexander Hamilton to George Washington, 12 November 1777” https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-01-02-0341  
> -“From Alexander Hamilton to George Washington, 15 November 1777”  
> https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-01-02-0343  
> -“To George Washington from Captain Caleb Gibbs, 23 November 1777”  
> https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/03-12-02-0360   
> -“To George Washington from Major General Horatio Gates, 8 December 1777” https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/03-12-02-0525
> 
> French translations:   
> -Cher ami: Dear friend  
> -à cause du petit lion: Because of the little lion  
> -Quoi?: What?   
> -N'est-ce pas?: Does he not?   
> -N'est ce pas vrai?: Is this not true?   
> -Je m'excuse sincèrement: I apologise sincerely  
> -L'affection proche: the close affection   
> -Ton cher ami: Your dear friend (informal)


	11. Reunited Affections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to Valley Forge! I’d bring some warm clothes if I were you…
> 
> Heads up: there are some ~sexy times~ in this chapter, where certain characters go further than they have previously. *However* there is nothing explicit; it’s all insinuation, innuendo or ~fade to black~ This story remains rated T (at least for now ;)) Basically this is just a heads up: If you’re reading and thinking ‘where is this going?’ don't worry, its not headed anywhere explicit…at least not yet!
> 
> Also: In terms of where the aides slept at Valley Forge—I’ve written about it in the end notes :)
> 
> Hope you Enjoy!

_Winter Encampment  
Valley Forge   
January 1st – 21st 1778  
  
_  
Laurens shivers, blows on his hands, shoves them under the armpits of his coat in a desperate attempt to retain some warmth in them as he trudges back to headquarters.   
  
At this moment, and likely for the rest of winter, Washington’s military family is accommodated in the house of one Isaac Potts, though it is a Mrs. Deborah Hewes they rent it from; she has left to be with family for the duration of the army’s stay here.   
  
Though the house is comfortable enough, it is not very large, and sharing in close quarters be once again necessitated; still, this not a huge loss, as such cold as this winter promises should be helped by another’s body heat in bed anyhow.   
  
Laurens begun his stay here sharing with Meade (who has not at all curbed how much he may move in his sleep, despite the hunger and fatigue they labour under) but now, he has been allocated the garret to sleep in, where he sleeps alone.   
  
This, because Fitzgerald, who originally slept there, complained of the cold so much that each aide determined they should share the frigid room around; Laurens volunteers first, and thinks perhaps none else may volunteer after.   
  
Still, if Hamilton should return…well.  
  
He be getting ahead of himself, perhaps. This assumes Hamilton should still feel as he did when he first departed.   
  
Laurens is awfully aware that he knew Hamilton not even quite three months before his departure, shared but a handful of affectionate, private moments; though he knows what care Hamilton so ardently declared, he finds himself doubting the sincerity of it.  
  
They have now been apart from one another just as long as together; what if in this space of time Hamilton should decide he no longer holds any such affection for Laurens?  
  
Why _should_ Laurens hold his attention, when there are so many who would compete for one Alexander Hamilton’s affections, if the stories the other aides banter around be true?  
  
And Hamilton may yet meet a woman, someone upon whom he can legally bestow affections, and marry, and keep for life, and it should make Laurens fear—well, he should not dwell on such, anyhow, with so much work to do.   
  
He continually writes his father on the conditions of their army, near _begs_ Henry Laurens to entreat Congress for aid, and also to watch for any that may yet speak against Washington.   
  
Conway appeared in Valley Forge as the New Year rolled in; as yet, he does little, for the General easily brushed him aside over some technicality or another, humiliated him. Laurens knows the man’s pride to be wounded; it seems unlikely he should step aside entirely without attempting some sort more mischief or another.   
  
The light is fading fast as Laurens hurriedly marches through the slush from Lord Stirling’s headquarters to Washington’s. He passes men shivering beside pitiful fires, the lack of tents secured and cabins remaining unfinished meaning that many men share in far too crowded conditions; typhus, smallpox and scurvy are beginning to make their insidious way through the ranks.   
  
Some men even leave blood stained prints behind as they walk, vivid red against the muddied snow; they be entirely lacking shoes, or any suitable substitution for them.  
  
A particular stink wafts on the skin shredding breeze; the decomposing carcasses of deceased horses constantly unpleasantly present in the nostrils.   
  
They run low on gunpowder, on uniforms, on blankets and food; Laurens now well-adjusted to the bland taste of cornmeal mush in the morn and firecakes of an eve, though lunch sometimes manages to conjure up a small portion of meat, beans and hardtack—at least, for Washington’s staff and the higher ranked, though not likely the rest of the enlisted men.   
  
Though excitingly named, firecakes consist only of mere flour and water, cooked on a fire, and taste of absolutely nothing.   
  
The lack of fresh food, combined with spreading disease, may yet finish this campaign before the British even have a chance to do so.   
  
The General has already quashed mutiny once, where just afore Christmas crowds of men marched through Valley Forge chanting _no meat, no meat_ and imitating the sounds of owls and cows. Though the officers across camp managed to regain control of their men then, Laurens knows Washington should fear proper, violent mutiny, if supplies and clothing are not rapidly sourced.   
  
And yet, Congress still has not even provided them a replacement Quartermaster, when Mifflin resigned the post so many months ago!  
  


With an angry snort, Laurens finds his feet have carried him right to the door of headquarters. He stamps his feet upon the steps to dislodge mud and snow he would rather not tramp through the house.  
  
The first room on the right upon entering has been claimed for the aides-de-camp office. It seems the desks be still pushed back against the wall from the two o’clock lunch—or rather, an excuse to gather all aides for discussion, whilst eating—that Washington has insisted upon each day since they found themselves at Valley Forge. Though this were started near three hours ago, it seems discussion has lasted long this day, as the General is still standing over the table, dictating something to Harrison.  
  
“Ah, Laurens!” Such jubilant tone as this should belong to Meade, of course. “You are finally returned to us.”   
  
Fitzgerald rolls his eyes. “As though he has been absent over long.”   
  
Laurens only nods, removes his hat; his teeth chatter rather too shamefully for speech.  
  
Fitzgerald must notice such, tilts his head towards the roaring fireplace subtly, eyes flicking in its direction.  
  
Laurens musters a thankful grin; slides as unobtrusively as possible across the floor to stand in front of the flames. He feels as though his bones and skin may finally be warmed from frozen lead to rather more organic matter.  
  
He starts eavesdropping upon Harrison and the General, waiting for the moment he may insert his own dealings of the afternoon.  
  
His Excellency is speaking on what recommendations they may make and report to Congress, as a Committee of delegates should be arriving at camp five days hence. Washington intends to convince them to implement reforms to the army’s supply department (among many other things), and he wishes his aides to assist in this matter—indeed, to provide input themselves on what many of these reforms should be.   
  
A fair amount should be at stake, for if they cannot convince Congress of their dire need, it seems likely the men should mutiny, or die from exposure and starvation.  
  
“Laurens.”  
  
Laurens is suddenly snapped from his pondering, as the General barks his name.   
  
“Yes, Sir?”   
  
“What says Stirling?”   
  
Ah.   
  
Laurens clears his throat; his teeth, at least, chatter no longer. “His reports are much the same as ours; his men just as badly off, illness just as rife within their ranks.” He holds out the report copies he secured from Stirling’s aide; Harrison takes them with a sigh.   
  
“Lafayette says much the same,” Tilghman adds, surprising them all; he has appeared in the doorway, also arrived back from his tasks, as Laurens. “It is likely the men intermingle and spread disease further, owing to the fact that none have particular instructions on which area of camp should be his.”  
  
Harrison hums, takes Tilghman’s proffered papers. “Shall we add a recommendation of such allocation to the regulation report, Sir?”   
  
A further report they draft for the Committee’s benefit; this one on ways to improve the regulation and discipline of the Continental Army before their next campaign may commence.   
  
Washington nods sharply. “Yes, indeed.” He pauses, then: “No word yet on Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton’s arrival?”   
  
Harrison only shakes his head.   
  
Laurens knows why the General asks. He dearly wishes Hamilton’s skill with words for the Committee; though he should mean the other aides no slight, it is undeniable that Hamilton’s persuasive ability be truly required for this.   
  
Washington’s expression is tight. “Well.” He runs his finger down a page sitting on the table. “I trust the drafts still progress swiftly?”   
  
Harrison only nods. “Certainly, Sir.”   
  
And this is true, but—if Hamilton were here, they may be already done, Laurens thinks, almost bitterly.   
  
He can see why Hamilton may grow frustrated at his position here; it becomes increasingly doubtful Washington should ever let him go when he relies on his abilities so greatly. Simultaneously, it is somewhat irritating Washington constantly overlooks just how talented some of his other aides may be.   
  
Regardless, Hamilton has not yet returned; this irritancy on his part irrelevant at the current moment.  
  
Again lost in his thoughts, Laurens misses the next part of the conversation; luckily, the General does not notice such, but is instead lost to a burst of temper, knocking a glass noisily from the table accidentally as Harrison reads some disparaging figure or another.   
  
Fitzgerald leaves the room to search out a servant or a broom; Tilghman shares a weighted glance with Laurens.  
  
The General’s temper grows shorter and shorter than usual, pressure upon his position mounting on all sides, and the downtrodden state of his men distressing him.   
  


Later in the evening finds the aides once more in a rearranged room, desks returned to proper place, and Washington out of headquarters, seeking General Greene on some matter he declines to discuss with his staff as of yet.   
  
Harrison makes sure to keep the fire going, but Laurens finds himself seated nearest the window at present, and a biting chill makes its way under the frame.   
  
Slowly but surely, men put down quills and retreat to the relative warmth of the second bedroom upstairs; it boasts a fireplace, shared body heat and blankets, after all, as well as an opportunity to sleep and forget the army’s troubles for a few hours.  
  
When Tilghman departs, he glares at Meade, the only other remaining with Laurens. “Sir, if you wake me with cold feet upon alighting to bed, I shall be sure you receive not even cornmeal for breakfast.”  
  
Meade mimes being stabbed in the heart with his quill. “Ah, Tilghman! How shall I ever recover from such awful threats?”   
  
Tilghman only snorts, unimpressed. Even his usual jesting nature should be tempered by their current situation; Meade appears the only one whose mood remains stubbornly unaffected.   
  
“I imagine you shall recover in your usual manner: easily.”   
  
Meade gapes. “Sir! And I thought you a kind soul.”  
  
Tilghman chuckles, rolls his eyes. “I have no idea what could have given you such a thought as that.”   
  
He moves towards the door, glances back over shoulder. “In any case, touch not my vulnerable legs with your icicle feet, and all shall be well.”   
  
Meade only grins, waves Tilghman off.   
  
As he leaves, Laurens catches Meade’s grin as it wavers, falters and falls, then as he casts his eyes back to his work.   
  
His stubborn cheer is, perhaps, more for their benefit than his.   
  
Time ticks on past midnight, and Laurens has long given up on any productive work; instead sketches lightly upon a sheet he ruined with ink blots. Even paper should not be wasted for a sketch unless it already spoiled as this.   
  
The sketch attempts to capture all the aides at work, this time, for Laurens thinks he should never again share such close camaraderie with men as this, and as with Hamilton, should also want some remembrance of it.   
  
“What do you work on?” Meade surprises him as he stands from his desk, trudges shiveringly across the room—they have accidentally let the fire die down, so thank the Lord Harrison has retired to sleep. “I think we both ought not to procrastinate sleep any further, lest our minds fail us tomorrow.”  
  
Laurens smiles tiredly. “Yours has not already failed? I feel mine has.”   
  
He makes an attempt to hide the sketch, but not truly; it be not so private as the first he worked on here.   
  
“Not yet,” Meade chuckles. “Though perhaps I shall follow you into madness soon—Why, Laurens! You are of some artistic talent I see!”  
  
He has spied the drawing, snatches it up, peers wearily at it in the dying candlelight.   
  
Laurens only shrugs. “I try. I have little time for it, of course, and have not practised properly in such a long while—”   
  
Meade waves his protestations off. “Ha! I think you may not attempt anything without some passion and talent for it, and so it is with this. Our likenesses appear rather good; though I think myself rather more handsome in looks than you have portrayed.”  
  
Laurens only snorts, snatches it back. “To your thinking, perhaps.”   
  
Meade feigns insult. “I am no Alexander Hamilton, to be sure, but my wife thought me well enough to look at.”  
  
Laurens startles, at this. “Pardon? You are—you are married?”   
  
Meade has not mentioned a wife once; Laurens had assumed him a bachelor, as Gibbs.   
  
Meade’s face twists slightly, eyes sadden behind his usual happy gaze. “I were. She died, along with our daughters.”  
  
Laurens’ heart drops; he feels all colour drain from his face. “Meade, I—I apologise sincerely. I did not mean to ask of such unhappy things.”  
  
Meade has summoned back that stubborn smile, though it means a great deal more, now, to know it covers such soul destroying pain. “I do not mind, Laurens; we are friends, are we not? Truly, I ought to speak of them more, so that others may know of their existence.” He shrugs. “We must speak on the dead, else they be forgotten, hmm?”  
  
Laurens nods, jaw tight, “Indeed,” and yet cannot summon the words to speak of Jemmy to any but Hamilton, cannot reveal his wife or daughter even when Meade has so revealed his.   
  
Meade then moves behind Laurens, bodily pulls his chair back from the desk, even as Laurens protests.   
  
“To bed, I think; with the General’s temper so frayed, we should take care of ours so that we may not all be lost to petty arguments come morn.”  
  
Laurens acquiesces, though truly, the garret should be even colder than this room and he has no great will to leave for it; he sleeps with his coat on most nights.  
  
Meade pulls Laurens up, shoves him jokingly towards the door. “Away, Laurens, away—Imagine Hamilton returns and you have dropped dead of fatigue. A poor way to repay our friend’s stubborn recovery, I think.”  
  
Laurens summons a weary laugh, and stumbles up the stairs, parting ways as Meade sneaks childlike into the aides’ bedroom, and Laurens heads for a further staircase.   
  
Knowing that Lafayette recognises his and Hamilton’s friendship for what it truly is, he finds himself unsettled Meade should think to link their names also, even in jest.

***

The next morn, that of the twentieth, begins a day so unlike any other that Laurens thinks he may be a changed man from this moment forth.   
  
It does not _start_ unusually, of course, except that a letter ends up in Laurens’ pile of work over breakfast that is not, in actuality, for Washington’s office at all; it is misaddressed.   
  
Instead, the sender means for it to end up in Lafayette’s hands, which Laurens does not realise until he has already translated the first few lines, then feels badly about, as it clearly a private letter not meant for his gaze.   
  
“Harrison?” he queries.   
  
When he receives no response, he tries again with: “Old Secretary?”   
  
Harrison’s head shoots up at this, a glare clear upon his face. “You know how I despise that moniker, Sir.”   
  
Laurens grins. “Certainly. But your name alone failed to secure your attention; I thought I ought to try another method.”   
  
_Old Secretary_ came about via some sort of mix up involving Harrison’s (untrue) age, his desk work, and a French officer; the name sticks, repurposed for the other aides’ enjoyment, knowing Harrison dislikes such immensely, but not enough to be roused to true anger.   
  
Harrison only rolls his eyes. “And why is my attention so required?”   
  
Laurens waves the letter. “This be mistakenly given us; it is meant for Lafayette.”   
  
Harrison tilts his head, glances around the room. Meade is already absent on some errand or another, Fitzgerald appears quite engrossed in his figures (he shall be immensely glad when Gibbs returns, it seems), and Tilghman shakes his head, “I will not venture into the cold again so soon; I only just begin to remember warmth!” as he shortly returned from an early morning task in the biting air.  
  
“You had better go, then, Laurens,” Harrison instructs, and Laurens nods, pleased; he shall never turn down the opportunity for Lafayette’s company.

It takes the better part of an hour to trudge all the way to Lafayette’s quarters, in the farmhouse of one Samuel Harvard. He has barely knocked upon the door, when the young Marquis himself bursts out of it.   
  
“Laurens! Ah, I were just about to seek you and _le Général_ myself, as it were.” He pauses for enthusiastic breath. “But what has brought you here, instead, _mon cher_?”   
  
Laurens thinks he shall never cease marvelling at how quickly the Marquis has grasped English; certainly far quicker than Laurens himself grasped French.   
  
“A letter for you, addressed to our headquarters instead.” Laurens hesitates. “From you wife; I apologise, I only read the first few lines.”  
  
Lafayette blinks; an odd expression crosses his face. “Ah, that is, _ne t'en fais pas_ , I mind not, Laurens.” He gestures for the letter; Laurens passes it over. He watches as his friend scans the lines of French quickly, expression growing even stranger, and perhaps—sadder?   
  
“Lafayette?” Laurens asks. “ _Mon ami_? Is something amiss?”   
  
Lafayette’s gaze, when it meets Laurens’, is an eerie mix of jubilance and mourning, two emotions that appear ill when paired so.   
  
Lafayette shrugs stiffly. “I first received word of my new daughter’s birth a month ago; little Anastasie, she were born in the summer, and she still thrives very well, it seems.”  
  
Laurens smiles cautiously, grasps Lafayette lightly upon the shoulder for a moment. “But that is excellent news? _Non_?”   
  
Lafayette’s face crumples. “ _Oui_ , indeed, it be beautiful news. _Toutefois_ —my first, Henriette; she has now died.”  
  
Laurens feels his eyes widen, knows not what to say, how to react. “I—My God, Lafayette. I am so sorry that you must suffer such an immeasurable loss.”  
  
Lafayette only smiles bleakly. “Heartbreak and new life all at once; it be difficult to process, _non_? I myself—” He gestures helplessly. “I should only feel broken that I were not with _mon Adrienne_ when our daughter were suffering so; that I were not there to hold her as Henriette left this world.”   
  
Laurens can only offer a hand to Lafayette, who clasps it tightly. “Such sacrifices are asked of us for a cause as this,” he murmurs. “And so often they may feel entirely unjust.”   
  
Lafayette nods, squeezes Laurens’ fingers. “ _Oui_ , and I should hate it so, but I should also love this cause so, this country and its _Général_.” He smiles gently. “And _mes chers_ , as you and Hamilton.”   
  
A heavy silence settles between them for a moment; likely, they both find their minds turning to those they have lost.  
  
Just as sudden as this sorrow settles upon them, however, Lafayette folds the letter, places it near his heart, straightens; he releases Laurens, claps his hands together briskly, as though swatting away grief and ill-cheer.   
  
The Marquis’ persistent capacity for optimism should seem a gift bestowed upon him by God Himself, given to aid all others he may bless with his presence.  
  
“Ah! But we must not dwell on such misery long; there be enough ill-fortune in this camp without us lingering so, and it should not help bring back to us any we have lost. Surely, they would wish only joy for us in our remembrance of them, _mon cher_?” Lafayette pauses, smiles softly. “Have we yet heard any more on your dear Hamilton?”   
  
_Your dear Hamilton_.   
  
Laurens near blanches at this open phrasing, speaking so plainly of what they may mean to one another.   
  
“Take care not to call him such,” he mutters crossly.   
  
Lafayette only rolls his eyes. “I am no fool, Laurens; I only say so to tease when we are alone.”  
  
“Even so.”  
  
Lafayette gestures him forward, and they begin the long trek back in the direction of Washington’s quarters; it seems Laurens should spend near two hours marching around pointlessly as this.  
  
“You sleep now in the garret, _non_?” Lafayette queries after some time trudging in silence.   
  
Laurens starts at the odd topic, nearly tripping over his feet, replies carefully. “ _Oui_. Why so?”   
  
Lafayette’s gaze turns strangely teasing. “Alone, _non_?”  
  
Laurens frowns. “I do not see why that should be relevant to anything, Sir, but _oui_ , alone.”  
  
The Marquis’ mouth quirks terribly. “Hmm, _non_? Perhaps you might see its relevance when Hamilton is returned to us?”   
  
Laurens breathes in sharp with shock, coughs as he chokes on his own air; beside him, Lafayette dissolves into hearty laughter.   
  
“Laurens! You do fluster so easily, _mon cher_.”  
  
Laurens struggles to recover his lost dignity. “And you should not jest so openly as this on such grave topics! What if someone were to overhear?” He glares, properly annoyed. “Further, I do not understand why men who claim themselves my friends should continually tease me so! It seems rather unjust.”  
  
Lafayette only chuckles, seems to fight hard to rein in his mirth. “Ha, my poor dear Laurens; your fair complexion and easily embarrassed temperament are a boon to my cheek.”  
  
“To yours and Hamilton’s both,” Laurens mutters, rather displeased, but this should only provoke his young friend into fits of unseemly giggles once more.   
  
It is hard to believe this the same man that rallied men so courageously at Brandywine, and a Major General in status no less.  
  
  
When they (finally!) arrive back at headquarters, they find it in uproar, happy noise and sound smacking them in the face as though it a solid force when first they open the door.  
  
“Laurens?” yells Meade, sticking his head out of the office, seeming giddy and elated. “Be that you? Gibbs and Hamilton are returned to us!”   
  
“ _Mon Dieu_!” Lafayette’s answering cheer is just as loud, if not louder, than Meade’s call. “Such happy news to warm my heart this day!”   
  
Meade darts out the office door. “Marquis! You find us at just the right moment—”   
  
The two of them continue to exchange happy jests and teases, but Laurens finds himself frozen, stupidly, as though a deer paralysed by a musket at its back.  
  
 _Hamilton is returned_.   
  
Suddenly, he knows not how he should feel, how he should think, how he should behave—he has not set eyes upon Hamilton’s expression in so long, perhaps he has imagined all such as they shared in some fevered wish or dream?   
  
At that very moment, where Laurens’ mind near strangles itself with frenzied anticipation, Hamilton steps out of the office, chattering loudly with Harrison, about some part of the congressional report or another—of course, he already attempts to resume his work!  
  
Laurens stands beside the front door, watches Hamilton as he animatedly gestures.  
  
His face appears gaunter, cheekbones further prominent; his clothes fit rather less well than before, his frame likely shrunken by such fever as he has battled long. Similarly, his hair has perhaps lost some of its shine; nonetheless, he appears as astonishing and striking to Laurens as when he last beheld him, last shared affections with him.   
  
His eyes, too: they have lost none of their incredible animation, flashing dangerously with mirth, spiking angrily with determination; the same contradiction of inky blue and fiery flame spiralling out to capture Laurens’ soul so utterly.   
  
Hamilton appears mid phrase when his gaze leaves Harrison, catches Lafayette’s pleased greeting, roams over the Marquis’ tall shoulder, and lands square upon Laurens’ dazed countenance.   
  
Laurens vaguely hears Harrison prompt him: “Hamilton? Ham? You were saying—” notices Lafayette follow his gaze, distract Harrison with some query or another, as Hamilton strides past, all but ignoring Gibbs, who now leaves the room to join the reunions in the corridor.   
  
And then, Hamilton stands in front of Laurens, smile wide, eyes dancing. He holds a hand out to shake.   
  
“Laurens.”   
  
Laurens blinks once. Twice. Removes the fearful imagined images of Hamilton cold and dead, replaces them with the smiling, living, _breathing_ visage he sees before him.   
  
He grasps Hamilton’s hand, shakes once, his palm rough and warm against Laurens’ chilled skin.  
  
“Hamilton,” he replies softly. “I am glad you are returned to us in better health, at last.”  
  
“Yes,” nods Hamilton, words just as quiet and gentle. “Yes. I am also glad; immeasurably glad.” He glances in a cautious manner to the side, lowers his voice even further. “It has been a long three months.”   
  
There seems more clear in what he cannot say, what he cannot voice with all others here and present so, watching over their shoulder.   
  
“It were,” Laurens agrees; tries to hide the lingering fear and worry far beneath his gladdened tone. “Very long, indeed.”   
  


The rest of the day should seem some awful sort of torture, for Laurens is kept at the desk he shares with Tilghman, and Hamilton remains sequestered in Washington’s office for the entire afternoon, only emerging wearily as the sun starts to crave the horizon.   
  
This should mean Laurens be not afforded any private word with Hamilton; even after Hamilton returns, he is quickly given a chair at Harrison’s desk, for he the only one seated alone at present.   
  
Gibbs plucks the accounts from Fitzgerald rather comically and carries them off to wherever he may have claimed to work; Fitzgerald groans, sighs and cheers theatrically, before setting to a heaping pile of correspondence Harrison eagerly offloads, saying: “I should never think myself so glad to read the pompous words of yet another congressman!”   
  
Lafayette remains in consultation with Washington a while after Hamilton is freed from such, then he leaves to begin the lengthy retreat back to his own quarters; promises both Laurens and Hamilton that he shall have them for drinks some evening hence, if they all possess the time—though Laurens should hope to postpone such for now, as he is unsure what Hamilton may make of Lafayette’s…awareness, of a sort.   
  
Finally, it is just Hamilton, Laurens and Tilghman who remain at work—Meade making sure to throw Tilghman’s words about icy toes back at him as he retreats first to bed—and Hamilton, unusually, should break the silence of busy quills with a querying cough.   
  
Tilghman looks up, “Aye, Sir?”   
  
Hamilton hums. “I thought I ought to inquire on whose bed I might share, before all vacate the office and leave me quite confused on the arrangements.”   
  
“Oh!” Tilghman laughs. “Of course, yes; that should be rather unfortunate, if you stumble into a bed that already houses two.”  
  
Laurens forces himself to stare furiously at a letter he copies, so as not to meet Hamilton’s gaze.  
  
Tilghman taps his quill against the desk, clearly thinking. “I believe Laurens the only man in possession of his own bed, at present.”  
  
Hamilton snorts. “And how did he manage to secure such?”   
  
At this, Laurens looks up, meets Hamilton’s gaze challengingly. “I volunteered, Sir.”  
  
“And why should sleeping in a bed alone require a volunteer?” Hamilton’s tone remains light, but Laurens can sense a tense undercurrent to it.   
  
Tilghman, luckily, remains cheerfully oblivious. “It be the coldest room, the smallest room, and the room which requires the most climbing of stairs. Fitzgerald begun with it, but such complaining…” He tuts playfully. “It could not be borne. Laurens does us all a great service with his sacrifice.” He winks; Laurens chuckles.   
  
“It is not so great a sacrifice to possess one’s own room in such a shared house, even if it be rather small, and the ceiling proved rather dangerous.”  
  
Hamilton’s expression turns to amusement, quizzicality. “The ceiling is dangerous? How so?”   
  
Tilghman snorts. “Indeed. Fitzgerald sports one bruised lump still, I think; Laurens has collected several.”   
  
Laurens only rolls his eyes. “It is a great burden, enjoying such height as I do.”  
  
He feels Hamilton’s gaze rove up and down his face and chest acutely. “Hmm. I wonder if that truly such a burden.”   
  
Tilghman snorts, luckily seems to catch no unseemly innuendo in Hamilton’s words.  
  
  
All three work in silence once more, until Tilghman be attacked by such a yawn as to nearly split his face.   
  
“I think I should retire, gentlemen, and I think you should also, so recently recovered as you are, Hammie.”   
  
Hamilton barely looks up, but Laurens nods. “Aye, indeed.”  
  
Tilghman stands up, stretches blearily. “Perhaps tomorrow we shall drag another bed up to the garret, perhaps not. I think you shall manage fine, either way.”   
  
Laurens nods in agreement; the door closes quietly behind Tilghman.   
  
That strange tense undercurrent is back, seeping through the chilled air of the room to settle upon Laurens’ skin delicately, set his heart to racing unsteadily.   
  
“I shall retire also, as Tilghman recommends.” He waits a beat for Hamilton’s response; prompts: “Hamilton?”   
  
Hamilton’s head shoots up. “Aye, yes, of course, yes. I have several points yet to add to this set of army regulation recommendations for Washington; I shall be along shortly.”   
  
Laurens’ heart sinks, slowly stops racing as he retreats wearily up to the garret.   
  
Perhaps Hamilton be not so keen to share private quarters as Laurens had so hoped, envisaged?  
  
With a disappointed sigh, now extremely fatigued, he pushes the garret door open slowly, remembers to duck as he enters, begins the slow process of disrobing to his shirt and breeches, shivering and praying Hamilton may soon arrive, else he require his coat as he has so done the last week.  
  
Just as Laurens climbs into bed, lays down, prepares to extinguish the candle, and has given up Hamilton as lost to his work, the door creaks open slowly.   
  
“John?” he hears called softly. “Are you already abed?”   
  
“Aye,” Laurens replies quietly. “But not yet asleep.”  
  
Hamilton steps through the door, ducks—though his need to do so less pressing than Laurens’—and then closes it carefully.   
  
Laurens sits up, regards Hamilton in the flickering light.   
  
No man should have any right to such an appealing visage, particularly when they have been sick near three months, but Hamilton somehow manages.   
  
He takes his coat off carefully, then his vest, boots, cravat and stockings, laying them over Laurens’ belongings on the one chair in the room _just so_.   
  
Laurens watches as Hamilton regards the chair carefully, glances with narrowed gaze at Laurens, then cautiously carries the chair to the door, slotting its back under the door knob decisively.   
  
Laurens sits up further, alert, wary; swallows hard as his mouth goes completely dry.   
  
“Hamilton?” he questions in whisper.   
  
Hamilton steps away from the door; takes a step to stand at the foot of the bed.   
  
“Hello, John,” he says softly, smiling fondly.   
  
Laurens swallows again, rests on his hands, head tilted up slightly to meet Hamilton’s gaze in the flicker-shadow-flicker of the candle.   
  
“Hello, Alexander,” he responds carefully, hating how hoarse he may sound.   
  
Hamilton’s lips part slightly; Laurens watches as he, too, swallows, throat bobbing.   
  
“Laurens,” he begins in whisper. “It has been near three months since I last set eyes upon you and, therefore, I must ask: Do your feelings yet remain the same?”   
  
Laurens stares wordlessly, eyes involuntarily drawn to the skin visible above Hamilton’s protruding collar bones, usually hidden by cravat.   
  
Is this—? Did Hamilton fear in the same way Laurens does? That Laurens’ affection for him may now have faded?   
  
This seems too impossible to be true, to have the attention of one such as Hamilton secure upon him still after such time—  
  
He throws caution to the bitter wind. “Aye, they do. Do yours, Sir?”   
  
Hamilton steps around the bed, comes to stand before Laurens.   
  
Laurens realises Hamilton is shaking ever so slightly, his eyes dark with that hunger even in the shadows of night, and he thinks he already has his answer.   
  
“Oh, indeed,” Hamilton murmurs, stretching one hand out to wind a finger in Laurens’ loose hair, touch extremely gentle. “When I were in the grips of my fever, I could think of nothing else but your lips on mine, and that were enough to see it off, if I might taste them one last time.”  
  
Laurens feels his breath speed up, his pulse gallop to match; swallows again, far more forcefully. “I ought to rage at you, truly, Alexander, for worrying me so, when I were far from you, helpless at an awful distance, and Gibbs informing us you were that close to death.”  
  
Hamilton gasps slightly, drops Laurens’ hair. “I had to see my duty through.”   
  
Laurens snorts, but the heat in the room is slowly building, and he cannot force much true anger through it. “You had to be as reckless as you so admonished me for being, that I can see clear. You thought to demonstrate how terrible it were for you when I lay injured and shivering, is that it?”   
  
True pain seems to cross Hamilton’s face; he squeezes his eyes shut a moment, before opening them, lunging for Laurens’ hand, bringing it up and tangling their fingers, creating this heated point of contact between them that grows warmer by the moment.  
  
“No, John,” he whispers. “That were never my intention; I am deeply sorry for it.”   
  
Laurens only hums; finds he cannot hold his fear and rage to him now that Hamilton stands so before him, alive, and still feeling such care.   
  
“My God, Alexander; I did miss you so.”  
  
Hamilton’s eyes widen, his smile stretches to meet incredulous eyes. “To think you truly did miss me, even as I were missing you. I am glad that I may have someone in this world who thinks of me so.”   
  
“Oh, my dear,” Laurens responds softly, sadly, brings Hamilton’s hand to his mouth and kisses the knuckles gently. Hamilton audibly breathes in sharp; his fingers shake against Laurens’ lips. “All here care for you so; the entire office were beside itself with worry, and the General—” Laurens lowers their hands, joined still. “I think he regards you as somewhat of a son; he would not part with some of your letters when he feared that you were dying.”   
  
Hamilton has stiffened. “I do not require him as a father,” he says sharply, and Laurens frowns at the shadows gathering behind Hamilton’s eyes.   
  
It is clear that fathers and sons be a difficult topic for him to breach, and Laurens wonders on Hamilton’s own paternity. They discuss Henry Laurens often enough, but they have never mentioned Hamilton’s father, not once.   
  
Still, this a topic for further thought some other time hence!  
  
“In any case,” Laurens tries again, brushing past Hamilton’s defences as best he can, “As I said, _I_ truly missed you so. Enough, in fact, for Harrison to rebuke my wandering attention, when I were secretly worrying on your condition.”   
  
Hamilton gazes wordlessly back at him—a true miracle—mouth slowly working into a small smile, eyes beginning a tell-tale mischievous glint. “Hmm. Is that why you so thoughtfully volunteered for this room?”   
  
Laurens releases Hamilton’s hand, pushes back the covers, rises to stand toe to toe with him (careful not to hit his head and spoil the moment).   
  
Hamilton’s shaky breath stutters over his skin; he gazes down into his candlelit eyes. He feels one of Hamilton’s hands come to rest, carefully, against his waist, snake under his shirt, skin against skin; feels the calluses of Hamilton’s palm rough as he begins to stroke patterns up and down his side.  
  
Laurens feels his breath catch, feels his body flush with warmth. Though he knows the room to be frigid, he cannot feel it, such is the heat that now radiates from every inch of his skin, spiralling outwards, infecting the very air; his breaths come faster and faster.   
  
“Why should missing you so mean I might volunteer for this room?” Laurens finally asks, words near sticking in his throat from sheer _want_.   
  
Hamilton smirks, brings his other hand to join the first at Laurens’ waist, begins very carefully to tease upwards, raising Laurens’ shirt a little as he does so; Laurens shivers when cold air meets heated skin.   
  
“Perhaps so that we might be allowed a reunion of sorts?”   
  
Laurens blinks, swallows, feels his lips part slightly, that wild, hot, terrifying hunger beginning to rise.   
  
“I did not—well.” He pauses; thinks of what best to say, to tease. “A man can hope, can he not?”   
  
Hamilton steps ever closer, raising his face. When he speaks now, his lips brush against Laurens’ teasingly; he must tense every muscle in his body to stop himself closing such space as this between them.   
  
“Indeed, I think he can,” Hamilton murmurs, grazing teeth along Laurens’ lips slightly. “Did I not say that once we were able to secure private quarters, we ought to see where such recklessness may take us?”   
  
_Oh, God. Dear Lord. Damnation and Hell and all such Devils.  
  
_Laurens recites every prayer he can, every prayer he knows, for in this moment he understands exactly what precipice they stand at, exactly what recklessness Hamilton suggests, far more than they have so attempted previous, and God, but he wants, he wants, he _wants_.   
  
He should stop, he should think, he should do all manner of things, but of course, he shall do not one, for if he stops now, pretends he does not _want_ as Hamilton so clearly does, it should make a mockery of every sin he has committed thus far, and now such a path is started down, well—  
  
He ought to enjoy these feelings and affections that shall send him to damnation. If he is destined for Hell already, cannot reel back what is already released, he should at least make eternal damnation worthwhile, should he not?  
  
Laurens raises a hand to Hamilton’s face, rests the other upon his hipbone under shirt, traces one thumb along the lines of his sharp jaw, the other against the warm skin meeting waistband.   
  
“Aye,” he murmurs, hears how rough his own voice may sound. “You did say such, and I am like to agree.”   
  
Hamilton gasps; the air he releases skitters across Laurens’ lips, and that is it; his patience is undone.  
  
Laurens leans forward, closes that infinitesimal space between them, finally tastes Hamilton’s lips against his, moving languidly, assured, savours each and every touch that he has so missed these long months.   
  
He feels Hamilton smile against his soft kisses, part his mouth gently, invite Laurens further, and he seems true to the words he so spoke before he left: his body asks Laurens to dictate the pace they may move.   
  
Understanding this, suddenly, realising he now holds such sway over one so incredible as Hamilton, Laurens groans, surges forward, increases the pace of their kisses.   
  
The hunger and fire near burns him up; for a moment he thinks he may not survive such a meeting as this.   
  
He slides his hand from Hamilton’s jaw to his hair, tangling his fingers in it, tugging lightly on his queue; Hamilton moans into their kisses and Laurens feels his knees go weak, disconnects, begins kissing Hamilton’s jaw, under his ear and down, begins biting and sucking at the soft curve where neck meets shoulder.   
  
He feels Hamilton squirm under his touch, instinctively moves his other hand on Hamilton's hip down a little, teases towards the front of his torso, fingers slipping slightly under waistband.   
  
Hamilton makes an odd muffled sound; Laurens glances up from under his eyelashes, realises one of Hamilton’s hands has left his waist and is now pressed to his mouth to stifle any incriminating sounds and—  
  
 _God_.  
  
He should not admire, should not hunger so for this visage, a man such as Hamilton, but by God, if he can never have another, having Hamilton should be enough.   
  
Laurens must have stopped his attentions in his awe, as Hamilton makes a quiet noise of impatience, slides the hand still touching Laurens’ side round to his back, traces downwards, the scratch of his fingernails causing Laurens to feel as though fire races through his limbs, not blood; Hamilton's other hand must leave its role as a gag, for Laurens suddenly feels it tugging through hair forcefully, gasps at this touch that screams _mine_ , realises Hamilton’s thigh has slotted between his legs, and _oh.  
  
_Hamilton presses him backwards so that he falls onto the bed, blinks in startlement at this change of position.   
  
One side of Hamilton’s face is lit by the flickering candlelight as he pulls his hair loose from its queue, the flames dancing over the matching fiery hue of the strands.   
  
Laurens gazes up in wonderment as Hamilton settles over him, smiling softly down; his eyes widen as Hamilton deftly strips his shirt off, shimmering light dancing over his bare skin.   
  
Laurens blinks, knows his mouth parts slightly; reaches a hand up to trace patterns down Hamilton’s chest as he leans down.   
  
Hamilton smirks. “I think you enjoy what you may see?”   
  
Laurens chuckles fondly at this characteristic arrogance. “I know it.” His voice comes out rough, lower than he recognises; Laurens stutters and gasps as Hamilton reaches for his shirt in turn.  
  
“Alexander—” he starts.   
  
Hamilton pauses. “John? Is this—? We can stop, if you would prefer.”   
  
_No_.   
  
No, Laurens should not prefer that at all. Only—he has never been so naked as that in another’s company, bar when he were injured, and that were different.   
  
Even with his wife, that badly planned night, he remained in his smallclothes, as did she.  
  
But Hamilton—he should want to give Hamilton everything, even his life, if it be so required.   
  
Laurens grasps Hamilton’s hands, guides them to the edges of his shirt, then reaches up, pulls him downwards to meet in a sloppy, heated, frenzied kiss, noses bumping, moans and whimpers swallowed by the others lips.   
  
They disconnect for but a moment to breathe, and Hamilton tugs the shirt up and over Laurens’ arms, his head, throws it over the side of the bed, before recapturing his mouth, hands now free to rove up and over every inch of skin previously hidden.   
  
Hamilton finds a spot just under Laurens’ ear that sends heat and pleasurable tingles shooting through his body; before he even realises what he is doing, he has guided Hamilton’s hands to the buttons on the fall of his breeches.   
  
Hamilton stills; Laurens feels him smile teasingly against his neck. He squeezes lightly and Laurens gasps, groans, thinks he may see stars, or perhaps heaven taunting him with what he shall not have because he craves a man’s touch so.   
  
He cares not.   
  
“I think,” murmurs Hamilton into his skin, breath warm, heat of the moment near unbearable. “That we should not be kept so contained by things such as breeches.”  
  
Laurens knows not what he may have said in reply, only that it were likely some kind of garbed, desperate agreement, as Hamilton’s deft fingers work the buttons.   
  
From that moment, Laurens honestly knows not how he has found himself here, truly, only that he and Hamilton can derive such pleasure from one another that it should be near impossible; that they create their own sort of worship where the blasphemous deities be their own bodies, the prayers their own kisses and touches, battle scarred skin against skin, lips drawing breath only from the other’s lungs, sparks and wonder and heat radiating from each new place Hamilton may bestow touches, each new pleasure they may discover about themselves.   
  
Each new discovery should seem sweeter, more intense, more pleasurable than anything Laurens though previously possible, until truly he thinks he does not require the heaven so created and offered by the Lord; Hamilton and he be the artists of their own paradise.  
  


Later in the night, when they both lie spent in the dark, candle extinguished, Laurens finds himself unable to sleep despite his bone deep fatigue. He lies on his side, facing the wall, staring at it in the gloom. Hamilton snores softly beside him, the sound causing Laurens to smile against his will; he is pressed up against Laurens’ back, one of his arms lying over Laurens’ waist, the heavy weight of it both beautiful and terrifying.  
  
He feels Hamilton shift against him in his sleep, slumbering breaths puffing against his neck, and his heart feels so full it might burst, and yet so heavy he knows not what he may do to fix it.  
  
Though the air of the room is cold against his exposed face, under their covers be as though they have created their own world, where only warmth and care should be allowed to prosper.  
  
Laurens presses his lips together, raises a hand to lay it over Hamilton’s on his waist, feels Hamilton’s fingers curl round his unconsciously even in sleep, and he breathes in sharp, heart jolting, pulse spiking as he realises, _oh_ , he realises—  
  
He cares for Hamilton, yes, he cares for him deeply, utterly, completely, and he knows this. He also knows there are such feelings deeper than _care_ , and he knows this acutely, for he has pushed them away, and down, beat them off with every single weapon and emotion available to him thus far.   
  
And yet now, after sharing nearly everything he may be with Hamilton, of both mind and body, it cannot be denied any longer; his _heart_ will not be denied any longer, no matter what logics his mind may spew forth.   
  
He does not simply _care_ for Hamilton.   
  
No.  
  
He knows, _oh God, dear Lord_ , he knows that he—  
  
He loves Hamilton.   
  
He _loves_ Alexander Hamilton.   
  
No matter that he a man; no matter that he a soldier; no matter any crimes or sins or terrors.  
  
And no, _no_ , it cannot be so; he has known from the beginning how dangerous these affections may be if allowed to grow—Is that not why he protested so harshly against their allowance when first they begun this?   
  
And yet somehow—  
  
Somehow, he loves Hamilton; his absence and reunion has demonstrated that clear, forced a reckoning with such, where perhaps nothing else could.   
  
And so, Laurens lies stiff and quiet, knows himself a changed man now, fears and wants churning beneath his skin, as Hamilton slumbers on, oblivious to the maelstrom that tears apart Laurens’ soul.

***

Laurens finds he does eventually sleep, though rather fitfully; it be not quite first light when he wakes.   
  
He cannot yet hear noise through the house that should indicate his fellow aides have awoken either, and Hamilton certainly has not—as unusual as any waking afore Hamilton may be.   
  
This, as Hamilton still lies pressed against Laurens’ back, as he so were when Laurens worried and fret, before falling asleep—though his arm no longer lies over his waist.   
  
Instead, Laurens finds upon waking, that their legs be intertwined; he tenses, breathes out slow, finds he shakes slightly as the cold of the room invades their cocoon.   
  
He thinks perhaps he ought to extract himself, dress, descend to work, as it seems clear his frantic mind shall not allow for further rest.   
  
However, as he shifts in an attempt to sit, he feels Hamilton’s arm slide back over his waist, hook there securely, tighten; he wakes after all.   
  
“John,” Hamilton murmurs, his voice sounding thick with sleep. “Even I should think it far too early for rising yet.”   
  
Laurens finds panic begin to build, churning through his veins with each pump of his heart; he feels too confined, too enclosed, these realisations of a dark night seeming too large and looming in the soft light of filtering daybreak.  
  
“I should—” he begins, ashamed at how shaky his tone may sound.   
  
Hamilton only shifts them closer together, traces his hand delicately from waist to shoulder, sweeps Laurens’ hair out of his way, presses light, careful kisses to the top of Laurens’ spine.   
  
“John,” Hamilton murmurs again. “Stop.”   
  
Laurens blinks, feels his breaths come shorter and shorter—“Stop what, Sir?” he hisses through clenched teeth.   
  
Hamilton only hums softly against his skin. “I only mean that I understand your temperament well, now, I think. Do not run from me this morn; it shall make nothing easier for you, even as you suppose it should.”   
  
Laurens swallows as Hamilton peppers further kisses across his shoulders, strokes a hand carefully down his side again, traces soothing patterns into his chilled skin.   
  
“John,” Hamilton murmurs, tone more insistent now. “Would you turn and face me?” A pause. “Please?”  
  
It is this _please_ that forces Laurens to movement; slowly, he turns over, so that he may face Hamilton, who continues to move his fingers in reassuring swirls against Laurens’ skin, creating warm sparks that seem to seep reassurance into his blood.   
  
When Laurens risks a glance at Hamilton, he be almost swallowed by the tenderness and care leaking out from the darkened colours of his eyes. He finds that the cloying, panicked feelings that threatens to invade all his senses begins to fade, as he matches his breaths instinctively to Hamilton’s, finds that the air leaving his lungs slows and steadies.   
  
Hamilton hums, low in his chest, leans up and presses a careful kiss to Laurens' lips.   
  
“There now,” he whispers, words so quiet they leave behind impression more than sound. “I think you try and rationalise each feeling, each thought, far too much, my dear.”  
  
Laurens can find no voice for any rebuttal that may be required, is captured utterly by Hamilton's soft tone, by their legs which Hamilton further entwines.   
  
Hamilton kisses Laurens again, lingers in the moment that their lips part, breath ghosting over Laurens’ tongue.   
  
“Not every idea must be rationalised so utterly, nor must every feeling be explained so thoroughly. There are some things, I think, that must only be seized in the moment and taken, else we come to regret so many chances we did not have the courage to grasp.”   
  
Laurens blinks, swallows; he thinks this sentiment, here, should explain a great deal of Hamilton’s character: he will seize any and all opportunities presented him, for he fears more what he may never have, than what he may stand to lose.   
  
This, also, is a trait Laurens shares, in all other things but their affection, for he has never feared losing anything so much as he fears losing Hamilton.  
  
Hamilton is watching him, faint light of the approaching dawn casting a strange glow behind his head, bathing him in a light which softens even the lingering lines of his illness.   
  
“I think,” Laurens finally murmurs quietly, “That you are right in many things, Alexander. Why not in this?”  
  
Hamilton smiles, eyes creasing fondly, fingers beginning to trace more insistently across Laurens’ chest, winding swirls down his stomach, lays his palm flat against his navel, warmth expanding outwards from this tender skin against skin.   
  
“I know I am,” Hamilton smirks in reply, a wicked expression dawning in his eyes. "And I know we ought to rise soon, but not yet, I think.”  
  
“Oh?” Laurens questions, unsure, but his confusion be soon rectified, as Hamilton presses closer, uses his thigh to put pressure there and, _Lord_ —  
  
Laurens is a sinner indeed.  
  
Hamilton ducks his head, nips and sucks, kisses, caresses with tongue, down Laurens’ neck, across his chest; his fiery hair fans out against the sheets, tickles Laurens’ nose; he breathes in sharp—  
  
Hamilton uses deft fingers, soft touches, until Laurens may come undone once more, shaking apart under his hand, before Laurens should trace his fingertips teasingly down Hamilton’s chest, touch him in the same manner, watch in awe as he may orchestrate such pleasure for one he feels most tenderly towards, one he _loves_ —  
  
Such intense affection as this should prove his undoing, he fears.   
  
  
Laurens finds that he dozes off after they are spent; feels safe enough in Hamilton’s arms to allow his forceful presence to fend off such demons and fears and anxieties that so plague him in his realisations.

  
When he next awakes, daylight is most certainly upon headquarters; clatters beneath the floorboards indicate his fellow aides begin to arise, brew watery tea from near spent leaves, complain over cornmeal mush—and Hamilton is gone, already descended downstairs, it seems.   
  
Laurens dresses slowly, shivering; it appears to have snowed further overnight.   
  
When Laurens makes his way to the office, doubts and worries beginning to rise once more, he is soon steadied by Hamilton’s warm gaze upon him as he enters, the brush of their fingers against the tea cup he passes him, the quick winks Hamilton bestows upon him from his seat across the office at Harrison’s desk.   
  
And yet still, Laurens cannot summon those all-important words into being. Despite all they have now shared, he cannot tell Hamilton how surely he loves him.   
  
He cannot ruin him so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go folks, I hope you enjoyed that! ;) 
> 
> For those of you with a lot of historical Hamilton knowledge, I’m aware plenty of ppl mention Hamilton becoming unwell again when he gets to Valley Forge, so don’t worry; there may still be angst to be had…
> 
> On the matter of beds: there is SO MUCH info on the Isaac Potts house, and on who maybe slept where, when and with who…and SO MUCH of it is contradictory or unsourced, ugh, so frustrating! There *is* a story about Laurens hitting his head on the low ceiling of the garret (supposedly proving he, at least, slept there for a time) but like, where is the actual source for this?? 
> 
> In any case, I’ve gone with what arrangements best suited the story I’m telling; nowhere do I claim it’s entirely historically accurate, even if I do mostly try my best with it :) Creative license, folks!
> 
> Also, thanks so much for all your kudos and comments, it truly means a lot to me! <3
> 
> French translations:   
> -Ne t'en fais pas: Do not worry (about it)  
> -Toutefois: however   
> -Mes chers: My dears


	12. Fevers and Foolishness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome (back) to Valley Forge! We’re gonna be here for quite a few chapters ;)
> 
> I’ve had a Very Awful cold all week (it’s *just* a cold tho, dw) & it’s also been a Very Stressful week (for a lot of us I imagine yikes) so let me know if there’s any glaring mistakes I've missed :)
> 
> Also! I never had a tumblr before (perks of growing up with ~shitty internet~) BUT I just joined and I’m clear-as-starlight on there (https://clear-as-starlight.tumblr.com) if ya wanna pop over and talk Hamilton/history/historical fiction/shout at me about how tumblr actually works <3 
> 
> Enjoy!

_Winter Encampment  
Valley Forge   
January 22nd – February 10th 1778  
  
_The next day or so post Hamilton and Gibbs arriving at Valley Forge should pass in a bustle of action and discussion. The committee meeting with the congressional delegates creeps closer; as such, Hamilton is to be found either in consultation with the General, or working intensely on his recommendations for the reports.   
  
Though Hamilton has recently been in such poor health, he spares barely a moment for his own rest. The night after he spent such a wonderous eve with Laurens, he does not even retire to bed, no matter how late Laurens may wait in anticipation of such a repeat.   
  
Laurens feels that they ought to take advantage of their private room, when it seems unlikely this should happen again, and also feels Hamilton works himself far too hard too soon—and worries what the consequences to such may be.   
  
Also, though Hamilton has only been returned two days, he should already be overheard in argument with the General several times. On what topics exactly, Laurens cannot be sure, and has not the chance to ask Hamilton of them. Regardless, these arguments are unusual in their lingering effects.   
  
Both the General and Hamilton should often be quick to temper with one another (Hamilton more so than the General) but also, quick to forgive.   
  
Currently, however, there appears a persistent tension; Laurens hopes it has not anything to do with how he spoke on Washington’s fondness for Hamilton being akin to that of a son—but fears it may be so.  
  
That, and Hamilton’s constant hankering for field-command, for how he feels he is used for his intellect but shall be disregarded in the long term, as such feelings only seem to grow worse upon his return to their office.   
  
The General’s mood, also, should not help, as he is still on edge from all that Gates, Mifflin and Conway attempt, and from the dire state the men in his army labour under at present.   
  
The night before the committee be due to arrive, though Laurens manages to coax Hamilton from the office to their shared quarters, once there, Hamilton immediately sets to writing on his travel desk, taking up the chair, so that Laurens must place his clothes neatly upon the floor.  
  
He watches Hamilton’s bowed head in the flicker of the candlelight, shivering as the weather outside threatens further snow.  
  
When Hamilton is so engrossed in his work, unaware of any scrutiny, Laurens finds he may notice things about him that he has not before.   
  
For one, when Hamilton concentrates very hard, a particular crease forms between his brows that cannot be seen at any other moment. Also, sometimes, he sticks his tongue out—only very slightly—which seems incredibly endearing, and stirs such fondness within Laurens he must glance back down at the most recent letter he reads from his father.   
  
Laurens sighs as he finishes the letter, sets it on the small table beside the bed. He glances back up at Hamilton, still immersed in his work for the committee, and frowns.   
  
Even in the dim light, Hamilton’s cheeks should appear unusually flushed; he shivers, and though it is cold in the garret, it is not quite _that_ cold.   
  
Concerned, Laurens climbs out of the blankets, tiptoes across the cold wooden floor, places a hand against Hamilton’s forehead.   
  
Hamilton’s head shoots up, dislodging Laurens’ hand. He seems greatly annoyed.   
  
“Laurens, I have said I will to bed soon; interruptions should only slow me.”   
  
Laurens crosses his arms. “No. You will to bed _now_.”   
  
Hamilton narrows his eyes, places his travel desk upon the floor. “I think I should decide when I may retire.”   
  
Laurens only shakes his head. “I think not, Sir, else you never will.”  
  
Hamilton rolls his eyes, lets out an indignant huff, the effect of which is rather spoiled by a violent shiver wracking his frame.   
  
Laurens reaches his hand out again. This time, Hamilton allows it.   
  
“You have a fever,” Laurens decides. “How long have you toiled so and said nothing?”   
  
Hamilton only sets his mouth stubbornly. “The Committee arrives tomorrow, and my work is so required in convincing them to amend supply and discipline regulations.”  
  
Laurens only regards Hamilton in what he hopes is a stern manner. “None of your work should be required if you unable to rise from fever come morn.”   
  
Hamilton opens his mouth, looks like to argue, but Laurens quickly speaks before he is able to employ his famed wit.   
  
“I will not be left to worry on your condition again, Alexander. If this fever should worsen because you so refuse to pay it any heed, I will not sit here and watch you suffer needlessly!”   
  
Hamilton slumps, shivers again. “Perhaps you are right,” he murmurs, thin sheen of sweat now visible upon his brow.   
  
Laurens only gestures him up, begins to assist with removing his coat, unknotting his cravat. “There be no ‘perhaps’ about it; I am right.”  
  
Hamilton snorts, though it rather lacks his usual spirited animation. “And now you think to undress me, hmm?”   
  
Laurens only smiles against his will; it spoils his stern demeanour so. “I think I should always enjoy undressing you. Still, there is to be nothing happening in bed tonight but sleep.”   
  
Hamilton blinks slowly, as though his body seeks the sleep his mind rails against so harshly. “Ah, John, why must you always ruin my fun?”   
  
Laurens laughs quietly as he steers Hamilton across the room; seeks to ensure neither of them gain any new lumps or bumps courtesy of the low ceiling.   
  
He shoves Hamilton down into the bed, draws the blankets over him. “I think this time it is your stubbornness which must prevent such fun, as you say, since fever may make many things difficult.”  
  
Hamilton pouts, as a child might, yanks at Laurens’ hand. “Come to bed and I may prove you wrong.”  
  
Laurens only steps backwards slightly, leans to kiss Hamilton tenderly upon the head. “I shall, but first I shall attempt to secure some tea for you, perhaps, or a cold compress.”   
  
Hamilton hums tiredly, bravado quickly evaporating as he shivers once more, buries further into blankets. “The whole house is asleep, I think.”   
  
Laurens nods. “Aye, but I imagine myself capable enough to find some tea without assistance.” He reaches down, brushes a lock of Hamilton’s hair off his sweating brow.   
  
Hamilton catches his hand as he draws back, kisses it softly. “I imagine you are, my Laurens.”   
  
_My Laurens_.   
  
Laurens picks up their candle, creeps out the door softly, attempts to descend the staircase from the garret to the lower floors with as little creaking as possible, hears _my Laurens_ round and round his head, heart clenching madly, widening grin upon his face.   
  
How has it become that Hamilton should occupy every space inside Laurens’ heart so; inspire such terrible fear when he even the slightest bit unwell?   
  
It should seem a miracle, whether one willed by God or no, to know he loves such a man, even if he may never speak of it.   
  
  
It is indeed true that there seems none else awake, but Laurens wonders whether he commits a grave mistake attending downstairs without his coat or shoes (in this, he be glad none else are awake, as his father would likely be shaking with mortification at such thought as his son traipsing around headquarters in nothing but his shirt and breeches).   
  
This presumption is, however, unfortunately proved false. As Laurens makes his way carefully into the kitchen, he near drops his candle as a face looms out of the dark.   
  
“Laurens?”   
  
Laurens jumps, manages to catch himself on the doorframe, blinks, peering into the hidden man’s face.   
  
“Meade?” For it is Meade, grinning from beyond his own candle. “Good God, you near scared me to death.”   
  
Meade laughs, then makes clear attempt to lower his voice. “Beg pardon, Laurens. I only wished for whatever measly tea I could scrounge up before retiring to bed.” Meade’s eyes glimmer with amusement, flick across his state of undress. “Though I see you have already been abed.”   
  
Laurens flushes. “Aye, well, I did not expect any else awake, or I should have dressed further.”  
  
Meade only shrugs. “No matter; we have shared bed often enough anyhow.” He pauses, scrubs his free hand tiredly over his face. “What should bring you to the kitchen so late?”  
  
Laurens grimaces. “Hamilton is with fever; I seek tea.”  
  
The amusement drops from Meade’s face. “He is ill again?”   
  
“So it seems.” Laurens sighs. “He works too hard too soon, I think, though he will not be told such.”  
  
“Hmm.” Meade frowns. “I have never seen a man so committed to his work as Hammie; I sincerely hope this fever should not prove so bad as the last.”  
  
“As do I.” Laurens steps further into the kitchen, begins searching out tea leaves and a mug, for Meade appears to have already set the water to boil.   
  
Meade watches as he does so. “Laurens?”   
  
Laurens does not glance up from his work to answer. “Aye?”   
  
There is an odd pause that stretches uncomfortably.   
  
Laurens glances up. “Meade?”   
  
Meade’s lips are pressed together; he seems unsure of whether to speak or no.   
  
“Hamilton—Ham—he hails from the Caribbean, does he not?”  
  
At this, Laurens frowns. He does not know what he expected Meade to ask, but that were not it. He clears his throat. “I should think you must ask him.”   
  
Meade huffs quietly. “I do not think he would answer, truly, for he keeps himself to himself, no matter how jovial his acquaintance may be.”   
  
Laurens only lifts the pot of boiling water, pours it into two mugs—one for Hamilton, one for Meade—though the small amount of tea makes for a rather sorry brew.   
  
“Yes, well. He be focused on what he shall make of himself I think, rather than his past, as are we all, I imagine.”   
  
Meade only nods, reaches for one of the mugs. “But he has so informed you, has he not?”  
  
Laurens freezes, forces himself to turn and face Meade steadily. “And why should you think that?”   
  
Meade only smiles softly. “The friendship between you is clear; I only mean he must share some things with you he does not with the rest of us.”  
  
Laurens must make himself breathe calm, slow; ensure air enters and leaves his lungs in an orderly fashion.   
  
“I—that is, yes, I suppose that true. But anything said to me is said in confidence, you understand?”  
  
Meade nods. “Of course; indeed, such loyalty we should all hope for in our friends.”  
  
“Aye.” Laurens swallows nervously, lifts the tea. “I should take this to him before he may fall asleep.”  
  
“Certainly.” Meade smiles warmly. “Inform him that I order he stays abed until such time as the fever has lifted.”  
  
Laurens shakes his head, rolls his eyes. “I do not think he shall take any orders as that.”  
  
Meade shrugs, grins. “Even from such a friend as I?” He laughs quietly. “Perhaps not. Still, it worth an attempt, to pause his frenzied work ethic even a little, and so save his health.”   
  
Laurens only nods. “Aye.” He pauses, thinks if he ought to query, wonders: “Why should you ask of Hamilton’s background?”  
  
Meade blinks, shrugs again. “Simple curiousity, truly. Tilghman has mentioned Hammie’s French is somewhat accented, and made guesses. I only wondered.”   
  
Laurens makes a face. “I would advise Tilghman to cease wondering so; it should only make Hamilton cross to be asked.”   
  
Meade sighs. “Aye, it probably would at that.”   
  
Laurens turns to leave the kitchen. “Good night, Meade.”  
  
He feels Meade grasp him on the shoulder briefly. “Aye, sleep well, Laurens—if you can do so whilst your bed fellow suffers with fever! Tell Hammie he be not allowed to worry us any further, and thus must ensure he recovers quickly.”   
  
Laurens laughs, retreats back through the darkened house to the garret.   
  
He thinks uneasily of what Meade spoke, of how he spoke, of how he seemed to understand Laurens’ distress as more than others’ when Hamilton were ill months past, of how he continually makes reference to their close friendship.   
  
Does he see things that make him wonder on it? Or is he simply trying to convey that he be also their friend, and should worry on these things too?   
  
Surely, it must only be that.   
  
Lafayette is French aristocracy, and all know some of them to be looser with their morals, so that he being not overly shocked by Laurens’ and Hamilton’s affection not too much a surprise.   
  
Meade is another matter entirely; he should likely be horrified if he guessed at their crimes.   
  
This must only be that he offers his own friendship in turn, not that he hopes to startle a confession of their sins.   
  
  
Laurens does not sleep most of that night, as he finds himself too anxious, lest he drift off and Hamilton take a turn for the worse whilst he slumbers in ignorance.   
  
In the end, he dresses in stockings, vest and coat, seats himself upon the chair, busying his mind by reading of a proposal Rhode Island officers have recommended to Washington about recruiting slaves into their battalion, and the potential for emancipation post their serving. Intermittently, he notes ideas down, for a plan forms in his own mind about slaves in the south that he might propose to his father.   
  
As he does so, he also keeps watch of Hamilton in the dying candlelight, he shivering from fever, Laurens shivering from dropping temperatures.   
  
Hamilton tosses and turns restlessly, and sometime nearer to dawn, Laurens manages to scrounge a cloth and wet it with icy water taken from a bucket outside; glad none may see him as he does so, creeping around headquarters in the dark like some vagrant.   
  
Once returned upstairs, he places the cloth against Hamilton’s forehead, Hamilton waking blearily and watching him through feverish eyes.   
  
“My Laurens, that be awful cold,” he murmurs through chattering teeth.   
  
Laurens only hums, presses it carefully. “Aye, for you still feel as hot as though you have caught aflame.”   
  
“I catch aflame whenever I may behold you,” Hamilton whispers, eyes closing, “For there are none I care for so desperately as you.”   
  
Laurens swallows, removes the cloth, brushes a hand over Hamilton’s forehead and hair softly. He knows these words to be fuelled by fever, but even so, they warm him despite such chill as Valley Forge should supply.   
  
“If that be so, then you must stop scaring me with these bouts of ill health you make worse from overwork.”   
  
Hamilton only makes some quiet huff in response; he appears to already be drifting back into fevered dreams.   
  
  
To his worried and wearied dismay, Laurens finds he must sleep a little while seated upright in his chair, for when he jolts awake, dawn has come, and Hamilton has escaped the bed Laurens would keep him so confined to.   
  
Descending yawning and ill-tempered downstairs, he finds Hamilton at work, though he still shivers, though his cheeks still flushed. No matter any of Laurens’ sincere protestations and threats, Hamilton shall not yield to bed; even when Harrison and Meade stumble into the office, Meade with chidings and Harrison with cross orders to rest further when he realises what has occurred, Hamilton refuses all such suggestions of retiring.   
  
Laurens finds himself angry he has kept himself awake with worry, only to be brushed aside in such a foolish, stubborn manner, and he elects to ignore Hamilton all morning. If he a man who would disregard his health despite how one who cares for him so should feel, then he should deserve any and all feelings of discomfit arising from such.   
  
Tilghman constantly supplies Hamilton with weak tea and coffee, having been informed of his illness by Meade it seems; his eyes continually flick to Laurens, as though questioning his dour temperament.   
  
“Has Hamilton infected you with this damned fever also?” Tilghman finally queries, seeming to decide he cannot let it lie.   
  
“No,” Laurens replies shortly, his temper and tiredness not at all improved by the correspondence he must now translate from the General to Count Casimir Pulaski, an irritating, French-speaking, Polish nobleman in New Jersey who commands a dragoon detachment.   
  
Tilghman blinks. “And yet you are to be found in such ill-temper this morn?”   
  
Fitzgerald, who has also now arisen and joined them, snorts. “I think this place can inspire cheer in no man but you, Tilghman.” A pause. “Or Meade, perhaps.”   
  
Laurens only shrugs, returns his eyes to the words of the troublesome Count; across the room, Hamilton coughs rather loudly, his thin frame wracked by such awfully.   
  
Meade’s face twists with concern. “Ham, will you not consider resting just a little while? It is not as though the committee troubles us with their company yet.”   
  
Hamilton only sets his face stubbornly, frowns, takes a sip of tea. “I am fine, Sir. I have laboured under worse than this.”   
  
“Hmm.” That be Harrison, every aspect of his _hmm_ oozing sarcastic disbelief. “Even so, none should think you weak for this; a fever may take any man, despite his strong, impassioned or contrary temperament.”   
  
Hamilton merely picks up his quill, sets it to his page briskly. “I am quite fine.” Each word of this phrase is spoken so careful and sharp that if it were a quill, their precious paper would tear.   
  
Laurens only looks away, concentrates on his work.  
  
If Hamilton thinks he should let such foolishness as this lie without argument, he shall soon be reckoned with.

***

The Committee arrives that noon, and unfortunately, one Joseph Reed is among them. It be comprised of six men, the rest being Nathaniel Folsom of New Hampshire, Gouverneur Morris of New York, Francis Dana of Massachusetts, Charles Carroll of Carrollton, and John Harvie of Virginia. They intend to be in meetings with Washington, and the various other Generals of Valley Forge, for several days, as they decide on the merits of the army’s initial arguments towards reform.  
  
Laurens overhears Harrison say that he expects at least some members of the Committee to be in camp for several months—in fact, perhaps all of winter—for if the regulations are to be implemented, Congress shall require representatives in camp to oversee this, as well as to help in the development of such largescale reorganisation, should it be adopted.   
  
So, all in all, it seems they may see rather more of Reed than any of them suspected post his departure.  
  
Reed greets them all cordially, even Hamilton, expressing concern over the length of his illness; Hamilton waves him off, but does not actively antagonise, thank God.  
  
For this day, at least, Washington allows the Committee members some rest; does not immediately pull them into argument.   
  
Instead, he leaves his aides to make polite conversation and good impressions between their work, before Meade is instructed to show the men about camp (likely intended to shock them with their dire conditions), and decide where they might stay, as there not room for all six of them at headquarters.   
  
The spare bedroom in the Potts’ house be not at all large, though two or three may be able to stay there at present.   
  
Once the Committee has been adequately greeted and whisked away by Meade, Washington queries on the state of the aides’ recommendation reports; consequently, Harrison assigns Laurens to aid Hamilton, as his report the longest, and he unwell.   
  
Laurens unwillingly switches seats with Harrison; he finds himself still cross with Hamilton, and would rather keep his distance at present.   
  
Instead, he finds himself seated beside Hamilton, glancing over the pages of his lengthy report so far.   
  
— _There are still existing in the army so many abuses absolutely contrary to the military constitution, that, without a speedy stop put to them, it will be impossible even to establish any order or discipline among the troops_ —  
  
Laurens raises his eyebrows as he reads further into the document. He knew Hamilton were assigned some work on army regulation, but this!   
  
“Absentees, furlough, guards, officers, reserve pickets, civil departments, sentries, how many men Generals may take to serve them—you think to reform near every inch of our army, I see!”   
  
Hamilton coughs, shivers slightly. “Aye, indeed; His Excellency believes such as this to be necessary if we are to make anything of this army before our campaign recommences come spring.”   
  
Laurens only nods, continues scanning the lines, chuckles. “I see you have even thought to write of who may be permitted to ride the dragoons’ horses.”   
  
Hamilton nods stiffly. “Certainly. None must be overlooked if the Committee and Congress is to take such into consideration.”   
  
Laurens notices a misspelled word near the end of a page, corrects it carefully. This unusual in Hamilton’s writing, but he is ill, after all. “It be an honour that Washington has so trusted you with this important document, these suggestions.”   
  
Hamilton only snorts, at this. “He pretends the honour, as I were petitioning him for command when he so gave it, expecting my gratitude at such. When I did not give it, he were…displeased.”   
  
Laurens frowns, lowers his voice, as Tilghman and Fitzgerald begin to argue the specifics of supply without an adequate Quartermaster. “I think he may give you the command you seek when you demonstrate the ability to take your health serious.”   
  
Hamilton aggressively elbows him in the side. “That seems overly harsh, Sir,” he snaps softly.  
  
Laurens grips the paper he reads tighter. “Does it? You sweat and shiver at your desk, cough desperately beside me, and yet attempt to refute my words. I think not.”  
  
Hamilton glares. “I only think to do my duty where it so required; I have not a name to rest upon if I shirk it, as some may.”  
  
Laurens blinks, rears back. It has been a fair while since Hamilton so rebuked him for his name, a dubious honour he had no say in.   
  
This should only anger him further; he feels hot temper swelling beneath his skin.   
  
“Oh, indeed,” he hisses quietly, sarcastic like. “For it is my name that ensures I did not sleep for fear of your condition last night, my name that ensures my care for you, my name which offers any and all affection I may possess to you. Aye!”   
  
Laurens pauses, narrows his eyes, cannot stop the tide of rage. “In fact, it is that very name you so speak of that lessens my impact, here, as I cannot be employed to aid our army against the Committee and Congress, in case it should so be seen as interference at the will of my Father, my opinions disregarded in case I some mouthpiece for his influence in Washington’s office.”   
  
He forces himself to slow, to breathe, to ensure he does not raise his voice. “I only mean to say, that though _Laurens_ may help me in many things, at least if my name meant nothing, none should question my ideals and opinions as belonging to I alone.”  
  
Hamilton blinks; Laurens notices that his hand shakes upon the page.   
  
“I—” Hamilton stops, clears his throat. “I did not mean to imply—well, I did, actually, I suppose. But I did so to purposely wound, not from true opinion, and for that, I apologise.”   
  
Laurens hums, glances around the office carefully, touches Hamilton’s hand lightly, bumps his knee under the desk. “I also offer apology, then, though I shall not apologise for worrying about you so; you really ought to be abed.”   
  
Hamilton shrugs, sends a tiny, fond, smile. “You know I cannot do such, but I am glad to have you working alongside me, whether you are angered by me or no.”   
  
Laurens huffs. “I _am_ angered by you, but I concede you shall not do as I say here.” He casts a critical eye over Hamilton’s flushed cheeks. “I suppose I must watch you as a hawk might, since you refuse to recognise such illness as ails you.”   
  
Hamilton leans closer, appears to intend a kiss, but then seems to remember where they are, with who, and draws back, looks rather embarrassed, pats Laurens’ thigh lightly instead.   
  
His cheeks appear even further flushed after this than what is so driven by his fever, and Laurens cannot resist a chuckle, and a teasing wink.

  
Meade returns several hours later, and all aides in the office toil under companionable silence for a while, until they are disturbed sometime near to six o’clock in the eve, according to Laurens’ estimation, by a French accent querying:  
  
“Hamilton, _mon ami_? _Le Général_ has asked that I bring you to meet with him _aussi_.”   
  
Hamilton stands abruptly; Laurens realises with grave concern that he sways on his feet.  
  
“ _Certainement_ , Lafayette.” Hamilton coughs, clears his throat. “I did not realise you were here already. If you would—”   
  
Hamilton trails away, blinks rapidly, leans a shaky hand upon the desk.   
  
“Hamilton—” begins Laurens, making to offer a hand in assistance.   
  
“ _Mon cher_ —” Lafayette says at the same moment. “You do not appear—”   
  
“Oh,” Hamilton murmurs softly. “I think—”   
  
And with such little warning as that, he collapses limply to the floor, sending an ink pot tumbling, papers scattering every which way.   
  
“ _Mon Dieu_!” yells Lafayette, bounding across the room, as Laurens leaps from his seat, kneels beside Hamilton.   
  
Harrison’s concerned expression appears over him as Laurens lays a hand against Hamilton’s forehead, makes sure he breathes still, heart beginning a frantic, erratic tempo.   
  
“His fever worsens,” Harrison guesses quietly.   
  
Laurens can only nod, knows there must be terrible fear set clear upon his face. “Indeed; I need not even lay a hand near his skin to feel the heat so.”   
  
Harrison snaps to action. “Lafayette, Laurens, you must get him upstairs; see if you can rouse him, if even a little.” He turns, gestures rapidly at the others. “Tilghman, find a cooled cloth. Fitzgerald, ask of the kitchen, see if Ms. Thompson or Mrs. Till know some herbal remedy for fever. Meade, notify the General of what has occurred.”   
  
The aides all spring to, Laurens and Lafayette managing to haul Hamilton up between them, set him wobbling on his feet, as he seems to come round slightly, mutters something—perhaps nonsense—under his breath as they half drag, half carry him, not all the way to the garret, but to the second bedroom that were intended for the some of the Committee, though Laurens cares not for such now.   
  
  
The rest of the eve passes in some sort of strange harried realm, where Tilghman and Fitzgerald should come and go, offering clothes and drinks of herbs, where Harrison should continuously stick his head round the door, face exhausted and grave, where Lafayette should grasp at Laurens’ hands whenever one may be free, where even the General himself should climb the stairs to ask of Hamilton’s health, countenance sincerely concerned, and where Laurens should wring cloths, force drinks, offer prayer even, and think Hamilton shall _not_ be taken by such as this, simply because he too stubborn and prideful for his own damned good!  
  
Eventually, the house appears quieted; all retired to uneasy sleep bar Laurens, and Lafayette, it seems.   
  
Meade peers round the bedroom door on his own way to bed, informs Laurens with no small amount of grim humour that Reed and Morris have been assigned the garret this eve instead, though they should likely require this bedroom as soon as Hamilton is well again.   
  
As Meade quietly closes the door over and retreats, Laurens cannot help a small chuckle at the irritated expression he should imagine on Reed’s face upon his being consigned to the garret.   
  
In the chair beside him, Lafayette stirs, snorts. “I think Reed shall be unimpressed by such as that, _non_?”   
  
Laurens manages a small grin. “Aye; it seems Hamilton must thwart him even unintentionally.” He glances sideways at the Marquis. “And what of you? Surely it now too late for you to return to your quarters?”   
  
Lafayette simply gestures at the second bed set up in the small room; it is a folding field cot, rather than a true bed.   
  
“I am sure this shall suffice, _oui_? I should not be so fussy as that, I hope, _mon cher_.”   
  
Laurens nods, watches grimly as Hamilton shifts agitatedly under the blankets, his hair upon the pillow darkened with sweat.  
  
Lafayette grasps his hand. “I am decided he shall be fine, Laurens. Cease your worrying so.”  
  
Laurens only shrugs helplessly, squeezes the Marquis’ hand in return. “I would try such, but my heart will not allow me to do so.”   
  
Lafayette hums sadly. “The heart— _oui_ , it be a fickle master. No matter what you shall tell it of logic, it may disagree, _n'est-ce pas_?”   
  
“Indeed,” murmurs Laurens, reaches out and tests Hamilton’s brow; perhaps it feels a little cooler?  
  
There is a small lull in the conversation, until Lafayette should speak again. “ _Ton père_ —has he writ you any more on the opinions of Congress?”   
  
Laurens frowns, thinks mayhap Lafayette attempts a distraction, decides he shall indulge it, for he also requires such as that.   
  
“He has, but do you inquire of anything specific?”  
  
Lafayette makes an unhappy face, amplified eerily by the flickering candlelight. “I have heard of…mutterings, is this the word?” When Laurens nods, the Marquis continues: “Mutterings against Washington, that maybe some delegates may push a vote of—what is it? _Vote de defiance_.”   
  
Laurens feels his eyes widen in alarm. “A vote of no confidence? Against His Excellency?” He glares at the wall, thinks back carefully to his father’s letters. “ _Non_ , my father has not mentioned anything so grave as that.”   
  
“Hmm.” Lafayette’s face seems grim. “Perhaps my knowledge be mistaken, _oui_?”  
  
“Or perhaps,” Laurens replies; thinks this more likely: “My father is not yet aware of such. As President, he may not be included in mutterings among certain delegates until plans are made official.”   
  
“I worry…” Lafayette trails away, appears to watch Hamilton for a few moments. “I worry that Congress be divided into two parties, now; _un pour_ Gates, _un pour_ Washington, and I fear…that is, I am suspicious that support for Gates becomes the stronger of them. _Cela me préoccupe beaucoup_.”  
  
Laurens thinks on this; clearly, there must be some truth in it, else Gates should not be on the Board of War, nor Conway.   
  
“I have writ to your father on this division,” Lafayette says suddenly, cutting through Laurens’ thoughts. He appears to hesitate. “I hope this not offensive to you, _mon cher_?”   
  
Laurens only shrugs, makes a face. He realises the candle burns low, delays his answer until he has lit a new one and set it back in the candlestick. “Not at all. He is the President; if you feel you must write him, then you must.”   
  
Laurens knows Lafayette met Henry Laurens when he were convalescing; indeed, shared a carriage ride to Lancaster with him. In any case, correspondence with him cannot be avoided by a Major General such as the Marquis; Henry Laurens being the President of Congress after all, whether Laurens should find this agreeable or no.   
  
Hamilton stirs suddenly, and both their attentions are so captured by him. He seems to wake slightly, blinks blearily into the dim bedroom.   
  
Laurens quickly feels his forehead; decides it too hot once more. He re-soaks the icy cloth, manages to hold Hamilton’s head up a little to force down some of the herbal drink Tilghman left, lowers his head again, places cloth against it carefully.   
  
“That drink be mighty grim of taste,” Hamilton says hoarsely, voice with barely the strength to create an audible sentence, but Laurens grins widely anyway, pleased Hamilton seems somewhat coherent now, at least.   
  
“I am sorry,” he murmurs, puts gentle hand to Hamilton’s cheek, strokes his jaw. “But it shall help you get well, I hope.”  
  
Hamilton’s eyes slip shut; he smiles tiredly, leaning his face sideways, further into Laurens’ palm.   
  
“Dear John, you have no idea how much more preferable it is to be tended by your hands, than some person I knew not at Peeks Kill.”   
  
“I would have tended you there,” Laurens whispers in reply. “If I were able.”  
  
Hamilton hums, turns his face further, so that his lips brush Laurens’ palm in a soft kiss. “How much quicker I should have recovered if that the case.”   
  
Laurens only smiles tenderly, almost feels tears gather, removes his hand and uses the cloth to wipe sweat away once more.   
  
Hamilton appears to have drifted back to sleep almost immediately.   
  
When Laurens sits up again, he receives a rude shock—he has entirely forgotten Lafayette still in the room.   
  
“Lafayette—” he begins, means to make some kind of excuse; though he knows Lafayette to be _aware_ , he imagines witnessing such to be rather different, and fears he should have prompted a reckoning of what Lafayette truly agrees to know of, but not speak of.   
  
However, Lafayette is only smiling fondly, a soft look on his face, accented by the candlelight.   
  
“Ah, but you make me miss my Adrienne so, _mon cher_.”   
  
Laurens knows he flushes awfully, looks everywhere in the room but at Lafayette. He clears his throat. “I should think it not so very like your Adrienne.”   
  
Lafayette snorts quietly. “Ha, _oui_ , because you are both men, that is what you ask, _non_?”   
  
Laurens thinks he flushes an even deeper red, winces. “Ah—that is—I mean to say—”  
  
Lafayette kindly puts him out of his mortified misery. “I think you worry I shall suppose this unnatural, once I witness action, not only words, _oui_?”  
  
Laurens shrugs glumly, still cannot bring himself to hold his friend’s gaze.  
  
“Well.” Lafayette places a hand to Laurens’ knee; he finally glances up. “Do not fear, _mon ami_. I am not here to judge such care as I witness except to notice that it sincere.”  
  
Laurens nods, clears his throat; truly, he has no wish to continue this line of conversation, now it obvious Lafayette remains unconcerned about his friends’ sinful affections.   
  
He casts around for another topic of conversation, though conscious the hour grows ever later. “Why were you about headquarters anyhow? I did not think you were required to speak with the Committee.”   
  
“Ah.” Lafayette presses his lips together, lowers his voice further (they must remain quiet, ere wake all those who slumber). “ _Non_ , I were not here about that. I were—” He crosses his arms, appears most irritated. “This is why I ask your father’s opinion of Congress, why I write to him so concerned.”   
  
He seems to survey Laurens carefully. “Congress orders me to lead an invasion of Canada; I suspect this to be at the behest of Gates and Conway.”   
  
Laurens knows his expression slack with shock, incredulity. “An invasion? Now? In midwinter?”   
  
Lafayette snorts. “They do not expect it to be successful, _je suis certain_ ; that is why they do it.”  
  
Laurens frowns. “You believe they _want_ you to fail? That seems…counterintuitive.”  
  
Lafayette rolls his eyes. “ _Oui_ , except they know my infallible loyalty for Washington, and seek to use me against him.” He makes a disgusted face, tone irate. “I am not to be so easily used as that.”   
  
Laurens sighs, thinks on it. “You are certain they do not mean it as a nod to your success in command?”   
  
“ _Pas du tout_!” Lafayette’s frown is back, deeper than before. “You know what they do? This Board of War, they appoint me Commander-in-Chief of the Northern Army—they mean it a rank equal to _le Général_ and subject only to Congress and Gates. Pah!” He shakes his head violently. “ _Aussi_ , they name Conway—Conway!—my second in command and order me report to York, _immédiatement_. _Non_! I think not.”   
  
Lafayette glares at the wall. “Congress speaks of Conway as a man sent by heaven for the liberty and happiness of America. He told so to them and they are fools enough to believe it.”  
  
Laurens can hardly believe such plotting as that. “And they think you shall not object to this?”  
  
Lafayette grins wryly. “Perhaps, though I have already written my objections to Congress; that even aide-de-camp to Washington should be preferable to any position offered independent of him.”   
  
Laurens near chuckles at this slight to his own position; he knows the Marquis means it not. “And you have so informed Washington of all this?”  
  
“ _Oui_.” Lafayette shrugs. “He were going to seek Hamilton’s counsel, _aussi_ , before ill-health intervened. But he recommends I accept.”  
  
Laurens blinks. “What? Why so?”  
  
Lafayette gestures theatrically. “He prefers it me than any other, though he wounded by Congress’ obvious further assaults on his position. Still, if I am to do it, I make my own demands, or else will not yield. I ask for the invasion plan, that I may appoint my own officers, that I remain subordinate to Washington even in such a position. _Aussi_ —” Here, Lafayette grins wickedly. “I shall demand Major General de Kalb my second over Conway, so that he may not assume command should I perish.”  
  
Laurens’ raises his eyebrows, huffs at such open political scheming. “And you think Congress should yield to these demands, not choose another instead?”   
  
Lafayette grins broad. “ _Non_ , they do not dare, else worry France will withdraw support should I return home at such slights as that. I am, after all, quite a hero of France now, _oui_?”  
  
Laurens smiles in amazement. “ _Oui_ , indeed. I think Congress may find themselves sorry they think to control one such as yourself.”   
  
“ _J'espère bien_ ,” Lafayette chuckles. “I hope so. It should teach them to think they may undermine such a commander as Washington without repercussions.”   
  
“Good God, Lafayette.”   
  
Laurens and Lafayette both practically fall out of their chairs in surprise at Hamilton’s sudden exclamation; there is a scramble and a near disaster averted when Laurens almost upsets their candle.  
  
Hamilton watches them from his pillow, eyes glinting with aware amusement. “You politick better than most any member of Congress, I think.”  
  
“Alexander,” Laurens laughs. “How long have you lain listening so?”   
  
“Oh, not overly long,” Hamilton responds; his voice and demeanour strongly conveys _I am weary_ , but at least, he sounds less hoarse and confused than before. “Lafayette were saying Washington thinks he ought to take this command, that where I awoke.”  
  
“Ah.” Lafayette nods. “Indeed, not long, _mon cher_. You seem a little improved?”   
  
Hamilton makes a face. “I shiver less, perhaps, and certainly I know what is real, what is not; that a great improvement on my condition at Peeks Kill.” He grimaces. “I am greatly embarrassed by my earlier collapse.”  
  
Laurens glares, but it is soft, not in true anger. He reaches to test Hamilton’s forehead; certainly, it feels cooler than when he so fainted. “That should not have happened if you had so heeded my words, and stayed abed.”  
  
“Hmm.” Hamilton sighs. “Aye, I suppose you are right.”   
  
Hamilton seems like to say something else, before a strange look creeps over his face; he suddenly glances between Lafayette and Laurens rapidly, a look of alarm slowly stealing over his features.   
  
“Laurens—” he begins, voice urgent. “Lafayette—” Again, he glances between them, runs a shaking hand over his sweat-slicked face.   
  
“Lafayette—how long have you sat here?”   
  
Lafayette appears confused, but Laurens thinks he knows what Hamilton may ask. He decides to say nothing; if he should have been so terrified by Lafayette’s knowledge, it is the least Hamilton should feel after he has worried them all so.   
  
Lafayette shrugs lightly. “Since first you were brought to this room; the entire time, I should think.”  
  
 _The entire time_ Hamilton appears to mouth, eyes widening comically.   
  
“The entire—” His gaze flicks to Laurens, roves over his face; Laurens tries to contain his amusement. “Laurens! The entire time?”   
  
Finally, Lafayette seems to realise what Hamilton asks. “Oh,” he starts, beginning to chuckle. “Oh, _mon cher_ , I see Laurens has not…Ha!” He cuts himself off with his own chuckles, which he seemingly tries to stifle in this quiet house.   
  
“Laurens!” Hamilton exclaims again. “Am I—? Does this fever provide hallucinations after all? What is this?”   
  
Laurens decides to take pity. “He knows, Alexander,” he murmurs quietly.   
  
“He knows,” Hamilton repeats. “He knows. Laurens, he—he _knows_? Dear God, he _knows_?”   
  
“ _Oui_ , _mon cher_.” Lafayette has regained enough breath to speak once more. “I know, _oui_ ; indeed, I think I knew before you both, even, such fools as you be.”   
  
Laurens rolls his eyes; he grows tired of Lafayette calling them fools, as though this some easy romance they conduct here.  
  
Hamilton appears stuck in a shocked loop. “You know? You _know_?” His eyes narrow. “Wait, Sir— _what_ do you know?”   
  
Now, Laurens cannot stop his own quiet laughs; he grasps Hamilton’s clammy hand, and squeezes it gently. “Hamilton—” he tries, but Lafayette interrupts.  
  
“ _Non_ , Laurens, I must stop you there. He asks of what I know; I shall tell him.” A teasing expression crosses his face, and Laurens groans.  
  
“Lafayette—”   
  
“I know,” begins Lafayette, conspicuously lowering his voice to theatrical whisper. “That you care for Laurens.”  
  
“That is not—” Hamilton tries softly; again, like Laurens, he interrupted by Lafayette’s persistent cheek.   
  
“I know,” the Marquis continues. “That Laurens cares for you, _aussi_. I know this care not like what is usually shared in brotherhood.”  
  
Hamilton’s eyes grow large. “Gilbert—”   
  
Lafayette will not be stopped, such is his quest to cause mortification. “I know, in fact, that this care should escalate to things usually shared between a man and woman.”  
  
“Lafayette!” Laurens interjects; knows his entire face to be aflame.  
  
“ _Quoi_?” Lafayette grins cheekily. “I am not a simpleton, Laurens. What do you think I supposed, when I told you I had guessed at your affections, teased you on your securing a room alone?” He snorts.   
  
“Please,” Laurens tries, near begging. “Spare us this embarrassed torment.”   
  
Lafayette only grins wider. “Why, Sir? Is it not true, then? You do not take one another to bed? If this not so, please accept my apologies.”  
  
There is a terribly awkward silence.   
  
Laurens feels he should like to sink through the floor and disappear, cannot make eye contact with Lafayette.   
  
Yes, he knew what Lafayette knew, of course, but to have it spoken aloud so bluntly—   
  
Such humiliation!  
  
Hamilton, however, seems to manage a cascade of emotions in a single blink, wary narrowed eyes turning towards calculation; he has regained the roguish look he may often use upon Laurens. “It be impolite to tease the ill in this manner, Marquis.”   
  
“Hmm.” Lafayette shrugs. “I suppose that so. I think I must withdraw my words.” The clear amusement on his face belies his apparent conversational retreat.   
  
Hamilton only raises his eyebrows. “Please do not, Sir. Such would make it seem that what you have spoken of is untrue, and since I intend to take Laurens to bed again sometime hence, that be not the case.”  
  
“Hamilton!” objects Laurens, thinks he shall never be able to face Lafayette again. “Please, Sirs, my delicate southern constitution can take no more of this teasing.”  
  
Lafayette only hums, crosses his arms. “I shall do as you say, Laurens, if only because I regret saying as I did. Not because it false, _chers amis_ , but because I do not wish to envision such things of my friends any longer. _Mon Dieu_ , but I make a grave mistake imagining these things of you; I think I must pray for absolution!”  
  
Hamilton begins to laugh, but this quickly dissolves into a coughing fit; all jesting is forgotten as Laurens hurries to the kitchen and back in the dark, for they have run out of tea or wine in the bedroom, it seems.  
  
Eventually, Hamilton is settled once more; Lafayette declares his intention to rest, since Hamilton seems unlikely to worsen further now he alert, and confined to bed so.   
  
As such, Lafayette disrobes, retreats to the folding cot, appears to leave space for Laurens; likely assuming he should not share bed with an ill man.  
  
Laurens thinks that if Lafayette were not present, he should share whether Hamilton were infectious or no.  
  
Instead, he watches to make sure Lafayette faces the other direction, carefully stoops to kiss Hamilton softly, tenderly.   
  
There is a quiet snort from Lafayette. “You think me deaf, I see. I do not need to look to know perfectly well that you kiss him, Laurens.”  
  
Hamilton giggles childishly at this, clutches at Laurens’ shoulders as he tries to pull back, utterly defeated and embarrassed.   
  
Hamilton does not allow him this retreat; instead deepens the kiss a little, draws Laurens down towards him so that their foreheads touch.   
  
“Hush!” hisses Lafayette. “Engage in such when I have not the misfortune to be present in the room!”   
  
Laurens feels Hamilton smile against his mouth as he withdraws.  
  
“Wake me if you should feel at all worse,” he whispers, pushing stubborn strands of hair off Hamilton’s face.   
  
“Of course, my dear,” Hamilton replies. “I should always only want for your touch when I so invalided as this.”  
  
“Yes, yes,” Lafayette interjects; clearly they whisper not so quiet as they think. “ _Oui,_ you care for one another immensely, it is beautiful, we should all be so jealous, I understand so! You are ill, Hamilton, _mon Dieu,_ go to sleep!”   
  
Hamilton snorts, releases Laurens’ shoulders. “Lafayette, _mon ami_ , I am grateful that you guess at our affections, and yet say nothing, even though they a crime. _Toutefois_ , if you do not cease harping on us so, I shall find you once I am well, and suffocate you with your own pillow.”   
  
Laurens only shakes his head at the two of them, climbs into the small cot beside Lafayette, turns to blow out the candle.   
  
“Sleep well, Hamilton, and do not rise out of bed tomorrow morn, else I shall have Washington demote you to Captain and sent away, perhaps under Gates’ command.”  
  
“ _Oui_ ,” agrees Lafayette. “I shall not carry you to bed again; instead I shall leave you lying so upon the floor like some dead fish, _tu comprends_?”  
  
Hamilton does not reply except to snort.   
  
Laurens does not sleep for a fair while after; indeed, it could be argued he barely sleeps at all, perhaps an hour, at best.  
  
Instead, he finds himself listening for Hamilton’s breathing; he rises several times to check his brow, cool it further with cloth, sit beside him in the dark.   
  
Luckily, Lafayette appears a deep sleeper, else Laurens’ constant toing and froing should wake and annoy him incessantly.

***

In the hour Laurens does manage some sleep, Lafayette must arise and leave, for when Laurens startles to wakefulness, the Marquis is gone, and the bed be his own.   
  
He glances blearily around the room, can hear voices downstairs, notices the cold light of a winter’s morning through the window.   
  
He sits up, and sighs.   
  
Hamilton is still abed, at least, but has somehow gotten his hands on a travel desk, and sits braced by a pillow, writing furiously.  
  
“Hamilton—” Laurens begins, his voice croaky with sleep.  
  
Hamilton raises a finger. “I am still abed, am I not? I have done as you so instructed me.”  
  
Laurens rolls his eyes, swings his legs over the side of the cot, winces at how stiff he feels. “I meant you ought to rest and sleep—not _write_.”  
  
Hamilton grins. “Unless I be at death’s door, or raving as though a mad man, I cannot stop writing; it is like another of my limbs.”  
  
“Hmm.” Laurens stands wearily, pads over to Hamilton’s bed, tests his brow with his palm. “You do, at least, feel less hot, though I would judge you still with fever.”  
  
Hamilton shrugs. “A low fever; I am quite capable of working with only that.”  
  
“So it seems.” Laurens glances round the room; he appears to have misplaced one of his stockings. “But you are to stay _here_ , you understand? There is to be no absconding downstairs.”  
  
Hamilton only rolls his eyes playfully, shrugs. “Of course not, my dear.”  
  
Laurens raises his eyebrows. “Forgive me if I do not trust your word on this.”  
  
Instead of rebuking in his usual teasing manner, a strange expression crawls over Hamilton’s face, and an eerie faraway glaze settles over his eyes.   
  
“Do you know, John,” he murmurs softly, haltingly. “This is not the first time in my life I have near died of fever.”  
  
Laurens stills, ceases in the act of dressing; there be an odd feeling in the air, like he ought not startle, nor even make sound, else he interrupt Hamilton’s musing; he who so rarely speaks on any of his life afore now.   
  
“Oh?” he queries softly, slowly settling on the edge of Hamilton’s bed. “I presume you mean some other time before Peeks Kill.”  
  
Hamilton hums. His hand sneaks out to snag Laurens’, fingers interlaced, and though the warm weight of his palm summons Laurens strongly into _now_ , it is clear Hamilton’s expression remains entirely _then_.   
  
“Alexander?” Laurens prompts carefully, unwilling to disturb Hamilton unduly when he so clearly caught by memory.  
  
Hamilton’s gaze suddenly snaps to Laurens’ face; he squeezes Laurens’ hand, breathes in sharp, as though he makes some quick decision.   
  
“When I were twelve, my mother and I caught some awful fever; I still do not know what it were.”  
  
Laurens hardly dares to breathe, else Hamilton rescind this unlikely moment of sharing.   
  
“She—” Hamilton breaks eye contact, stares down at their interlocked hands. “I eventually recovered, as you see. But my mother—she died.”  
  
These words seem to ring in the silence of their room, awaiting some response, perhaps, or some judgment, though Laurens would never judge a man for the loss of his mother.   
  
Laurens moves Hamilton’s hands so they rest in his lap, places his other hand over them so that Hamilton’s are nestled between both his own.   
  
“I were a fair few years older than that when my own mother died, but it is a loss—it is a loss one never quite recovers from, I think.”  
  
Hamilton breathes out softly, as though he were holding his breath. “Aye,” he murmurs. “And after that, I found myself quite devoid of any parental oversight.”  
  
Laurens blinks in surprise. “You are an orphan?”  
  
Hamilton hisses between his teeth, begins to draw his hand away, but Laurens holds tight, shall not let him.   
  
“I suppose I were that, aye.” He glares away from Laurens, though Laurens seeks to reassure him through every meeting of their eyes, every stroke of his fingers over Hamilton’s. “I do not know why I tell you such things.”  
  
Laurens only smiles, fond, resigned. “I think you do know why.”  
  
Hamilton’s eyes flick back to him; his cheeks are flushed, though this could be from fever. He tightens his grip on Laurens’ hand. “John, I—you are right, I know exactly why. But you—” he huffs, though a less tense expression now graces his face. “How you manage to coax these damn things from me that I tell none; if I did not care for you so deeply, it should irritate me a great deal. Nay!” He grins a little now. “It does irritate me! But since I crave your kisses so, I shall allow it.”  
  
Laurens cannot stop his own smile, his own blush, though a part of him suddenly thinks:  
  
 _You are damned for this_.   
  
And not just because this a sin, no, not only that.   
  
But because Laurens allows Hamilton to confide in him of these things, encourages him even, and yet Laurens does not tell him that he is married, that he has a daughter—  
  
God, if their affections were not already crimes, he thinks he should head straight to damnation for concealing so much from one he loves so dearly.   
  
In an attempt to quash these awful feelings of guilt, Laurens stands abruptly, rummages with water and cloth, distracts himself by feeling Hamilton’s forehead.  
  
Hamilton begins to frown. “You see me differently, I think, now you know me an orphan, despite what you might say.”  
  
And that—  
  
That should break Laurens’ heart.   
  
“No!” he cries, drops the damned cloth upon the floor, near upsets the bucket of water Lafayette stored beside the chair last eve. “No, Alexander, I think differently of you not at all!”   
  
Hamilton pushes the travel desk to the side, crosses his arms. “Then what is this sudden bustle, this inability to meet my eye?”  
  
Laurens stares, forces eyes to Hamilton’s, tries to emit every ounce of care, every ounce of _love_ he may feel through his expression.   
  
He drops back to the bed, places his hands to Hamilton’s jaw. “I am awkward with grief, my dear boy, for despite having experienced it often, I still find myself at a loss of what to say, how to speak on it. But that be my burden, my flaw; it changes not my opinion of you at all except to marvel at what you have made of yourself when life dealt you such a cruel hand.”  
  
Hamilton is looking at him in that strange, revelatory manner that frightened him so that evening three long months ago whence he drew Hamilton’s portrait. Since then, he has experienced his own revelations, and if they at all match how Hamilton should feel—  
  
Hamilton’s mouth opens slightly; he blinks several times. “My dear boy,” he whispers, suddenly appearing as one does when they might cry from happiness. “That—” he flushes further, appears embarrassed. “I should like it when you call me that, I think.”  
  
Laurens kisses Hamilton once, very lightly, on his nose; Hamilton chuckles. “Then I shall call you that as often as I may.”  
  
Hamilton leans forward slightly, kisses Laurens lightly in return, though upon his lips, not his nose.   
  
“John—”   
  
“Jack.”   
  
Laurens snaps his mouth shut, freezes, mind spinning into a frenzy.   
_  
Why has he abruptly resurrected this name that so many he cared for and lost should have used?  
  
_ “Pardon?” Hamilton’s brow creases. “I am not sure—”   
  
Laurens presses his lips together. “Ah—foolish, perhaps; forget I spoke.”  
  
Hamilton rolls his eyes; a hand rises to rest against Laurens’ neck in turn, where he has not yet tied his cravat. “I shall not.”  
  
Laurens sighs. “I only—Jack were the name many in my family called me by, that is all; I know not why it slipped out, truly.”  
  
Hamilton hums, narrows his eyes. “Shall I call you Jack? Is that it?”  
  
And—  
  
 _Oh_.   
  
To hear Hamilton call him so after all…  
  
“Aye,” he whispers, feels as though his lips move without even his consent.   
  
Hamilton leans closer, barely speaks louder than whisper; the heat of his fever still radiates a little. “If I may call you Jack, does that mean I am family?”   
  
Hamilton wears an odd look as he asks this; near yearning, if Laurens could name it any word.  
  
He pauses a moment.   
  
“I think more than, my dear boy,” he finally answers, as such is honest, and he cannot lie to his Hamilton on this.   
  
Hamilton stares a moment, eyes wide. “Jack,” he whispers. “My Jack.”  
  
As though pulled forward by some string, perhaps one where fate acts the puppeteer, Laurens leans forward, crushes Hamilton’s lips to his.   
  
Hamilton gasps shakily, opens his mouth insistently, brushes his tongue roughly against Laurens’, fingers tightening in the loose hair at the base of his neck.   
  
Laurens moves his hands from Hamilton’s jaw, traces them down his neck, over his shoulders, teases under the unlaced front of his shirt, presses their kiss deeper.   
  
This position is awkward, and Laurens quickly rectifies such by climbing up onto the bed proper, settling over Hamilton’s blanketed lap, finds himself grinding down near involuntarily; Hamilton moans breathily into their kiss—  
  
And then, _oh God, damnation_ —  
  
The door opens.   
  
The door opens!  
  
Lafayette has not locked the door!   
  
Of course, why should he think to do so?   
  
He knows Hamilton to be ill; he thinks them both fools, perhaps, but not so foolish as _this_.   
  
Lord, but he would scold them to high heaven if he saw such as this, after all his stern warnings and teases!  
  
But the door!  
  
Luckily, it creaks on its hinges, and they are given _some_ warning, at least, but be this enough—?  
  
“Laurens,” calls the accused voice as the knob turns. “How fares Hamilton this morn?”   
  
And then, Laurens finds himself flung violently to the floor; either he or Hamilton having vaulted him off the bed. He strikes the side of the cot as he falls, hits his head quite hard; his limbs splay and in his panic, a foot collides with the water bucket, sending it sloshing all over the ground.   
  
There is a beat of terrible silence.   
  
“Well,” says Meade, for of course it is Meade— _why must it always be Meade_? “Well.”  
  
Laurens glances up groggily, groaning, rubs the back of his head vigorously. His stocking are soaked; his hands splash slightly as he pushes himself upwards, seated shamefully upon the floor.   
  
Meade wears a truly odd expression—some emotion Laurens genuinely cannot recognise—but he does not appear angered, nor shocked, so perhaps they have escaped his witnessing anything truly condemning.   
  
Meade blinks a couple of times, expression sliding from _odd_ towards befuddlement. He places a hand to his forehead, massages it.   
  
“Honestly, I do not know _how_ the both of you always seem to be muddled into some peculiar occurrence whenever I should seek you out; though I should think this yet the strangest I have had the misfortune to witness.” He frowns, shakes his head. “Why—how—Laurens... _how_ did you manage such a catastrophic greeting as this?”   
  
Oh.  
  
 _Oh_.   
  
Meade thinks—or rather, Laurens prays that he thinks such, _believes_ that he thinks such—it seems Meade thinks Laurens were rising to greet him at the door, and somehow tripped over in this terribly clumsy fashion.   
  
Hamilton suddenly bursts into laughter; to Laurens, it sounds incredibly nervous, but mayhap Meade shall not notice.   
  
“You are quite—” Hamilton tries, gasping, “You are quite—well, at least you have cleaned the floor.”  
  
Laurens raises his eyebrows, desperately forces himself to this charade, though his heart still beats ridiculously fast. “Aye, I suppose that true.”  
  
Meade rolls his eyes, offers a hand, which Laurens accepts gratefully, and so is hauled upwards.  
  
“I think,” Meade begins, a smile finally—thank the Lord—appearing on his face. “That you might wish to change your stockings before joining us downstairs, and I also think—” Here, he turns to Hamilton. “That you seem much improved, Sir.”  
  
Hamilton nods quickly. “Aye, much improved.”  
  
“He still has some fever,” Laurens adds swiftly, before Hamilton should think to make a case for returning downstairs.  
  
Meade grins slyly. “In any case, Harrison has all but banned him from a desk until at least three days hence, and the General should be in agreement with this.”   
  
Hamilton crosses his arms. “I should think Washington has further concerns than whether an aide of his stays abed or no.”  
  
Meade only hums. “Perhaps, but your dramatic collapse has so secured his attentions on your recovery, even if they were not already previously.”  
  
“ _Damnation_ ,” Hamilton murmurs, at which Meade and Laurens both chuckle.   
  
Meade departs soon after, with promises to bring Hamilton tea and cornmeal mush—which Hamilton greets the prospect of rather sarcastically—and to allow Laurens to change his stockings, finish the rest of his dressing.   
  
“Lafayette would have us shot for such recklessness as that,” Hamilton mutters, as Laurens prepares to also depart downstairs.   
  
“Aye,” he agrees wryly. “And I think we cannot trust the Marquis to lock doors.”  
  
Hamilton snorts at this, which pleases Laurens immensely, for truly, he still very rattled by Meade being so near to catching them in the very act the army defines as _sodomy_ , and jests be the only armour left to him to combat such awful fear as that.  
  
“Jack, please alert me if any such interesting event occurs in my absence,” Hamilton begs, as Laurens exits the room.   
  
He stops, peers back round the door. “Of course. But this confinement your own fault, you realise.”  
  
“Damn you, Laurens!” echoes behind him as he descends; though his heart still gallops along at near deathly pace from Meade’s arrival, it should feel somewhat lighter for his hearing Hamilton say, with such tenderness—  
  
 _Jack_.

***

Harrison is true to his word; Hamilton be not allowed in the office until the twenty-eighth. Even then, on that day, he sends him straight back upstairs when Hamilton be attacked by a coughing fit near to three in the afternoon.   
  
Lafayette manages to visit headquarters and Hamilton’s room again before he leaves for Albany, and possible Canadian invasion—though Laurens secretly hopes it shall not come to that, else he not see his _mon ami_ for a long while, or even ever again, should the unthinkable worst occur.   
  
Needless to say, neither he, nor Hamilton, inform Lafayette of their close encounter with Meade; it would not do to worry him before he must depart.   
  
Also, it would not do to embarrass themselves by revealing just how foolish they truly almost were.  
  
By the twenty-ninth, despite his fever, Hamilton has finished his lengthy report on the recommendation of new army regulations. Washington meets with the Committee on it forthwith, and though Laurens knows not yet whether all measures shall be adopted, the Committee do seem, so far, rather amenable to it, which should cheer Hamilton quite a lot.   
  
It remains to be seen whether Congress as a whole shall be so agreeable to it, but Laurens knows his father at least will be, as he writes to reassure Laurens often that he should stand firm behind Washington’s command.  
  
  
With January fading into February, and Hamilton’s fever lessening to such a degree that he barely even retains a cough, Laurens should feel a sort of hope settle over him, though the army’s circumstances remain rather dire, and the weather should feel no less harsh.   
  
For one, he has the beginnings of a plan he feels passionately about concerning slaves and their place in this revolution, this country; for another, he and Hamilton are once more removed to the garret, where they possess far better privacy, locked doors, and cautious chairs under knobs, so that many things may be attempted with less fear and further intimacy.   
  
Additionally to that, they receive news from the General that Mrs. Washington shall be joining their camp here. Laurens learns she did not last year, as it were considered too harsh, even with comparison to Valley Forge; there were a terrible outbreak of smallpox among the ranks.   
  
Just the prospect of her arrival cheers Washington immensely, so that the tension between he and Hamilton appears to settle—if even a little—and his temper appears once more tighter reined.  
  
Meade, as their best horseman, is sent to retrieve Mrs. Washington. He makes no mention of anything he may have seen before he so leaves, and Laurens begins to truly believe their immoral actions have escaped his attention once more.   
  
In Meade’s absence, the aides are kept busy, assisting in cleaning headquarters, readying Washington’s chambers with a four poster bed to assure his wife’s comfort, settling Reed and Morris into other quarters elsewhere, as their room now required for Mrs. Washington’s entourage.   
  
Hamilton escapes much of this cleaning and readying by pleading weakness left from his fever; Tilghman sarcastically remarks that when Hamilton were really ill, he should not cease his work, but now he mostly well, he uses all such to his advantage.   
  
Hamilton only responds that he dare not disobey Harrison, Laurens and the General combined, and they have all ordered him rest still.   
  
Fitzgerald answers this perfectly by slyly adding ink to Hamilton’s tea, staining his lips for near an entire day, which should cause raucous laughter in any that behold him, and that which prevents Laurens bestowing any secret kisses, else the ink transfer, and give their affections away.

  
Meade arrives with Mrs. Washington on the tenth of the new month, and she should seem such a charming woman, such a perfect wife for the General, that Laurens feels the entire house might be cheered somewhat by her presence alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading! <3
> 
> I don’t know if Hamilton *really* had a relapse of his fever here; some people write that he did, others not. He was sick quite often, however, so I don’t think it stretches the bounds of possibility :)
> 
> Gouverneur Morris’ name confused me so much, I literally thought he was a *Governor* spelt wrong until I realised, nope, that was his actual first name :p
> 
> Ms. Thompson and Mrs. Till were real women who worked for Washington as the housekeeper and cook respectively—though Mrs. Till was a slave 
> 
> And for a fun note: In my outline for this fic, Lafayette realising about his friends’ ~affection~ was noted as ‘Lafayette KNOWS BOI’ and like, I hope you guys appreciate that as much as my lame arse did.
> 
> Get excited for next chapter folks!... ;)
> 
> Excerpts from:  
> -“From Alexander Hamilton to George Washington, [before 29 January 1778]” (Hamilton’s army regulations report) https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-01-02-0353   
> -“Lafayette” by Harlow Giles Unger (the quote about Congress thinking Conway a man sent by heaven if from here)
> 
> French translations:   
> -N'est-ce pas?: is it not?/may it not?  
> -Ton père: Your father (informal)  
> -Un pour: One for  
> -Cela me préoccupe beaucoup: This concerns me greatly/this worries me a lot   
> -Je suis certain: I am sure  
> -Pas du tout: not at all/in no way/certainly not  
> -Tu comprends?: You understand?  
> -Toutefois: However


	13. Struggles and Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks <3 
> 
> I’ve officially hit over 100k words on this fic! Which is nuts! Thanks for sticking with me :)
> 
> Hope you all savoured the fluff last chapter, because shit’s about to start going down…
> 
> Also: TW! depression/mentions of suicidal thoughts  
> Laurens experiences a somewhat depressive episode in this chapter. It's very mild, but there is a *brief* discussion of suicide in a sort of abstract sense. If you want to skip that scene, it starts at: “‘Simply—’ Laurens shrugs helplessly” and ends at: “Laurens lets out a sharp, shaky breath”

_Winter Encampment  
Valley Forge  
February 23rd – March 2nd 1778_

It is a blustery day towards the end of the month of February when Washington’s aides-de-camp first make the acquaintance of one Baron Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben.   
  
This suits somewhat perfectly, as the Baron be a rather loud, blustery man. He appears in camp with all the force of a hurricane—this a descriptor Hamilton suggests, and it does appear rather apt, according to the Baron’s personality and presence.   
  
Baron von Steuben comes to them with recommendations from Congress, and indeed, from Benjamin Franklin himself, who writ of the Baron’s military experience and prowess with such fervour, Congress could hardly turn such a man away, particularly when they in dire need of any and all assistance.   
  
As Conway still technically Inspector General (though he is not found to be about, nor completing any of his duties) Washington cannot give von Steuben this title; he does, however, name him _temporary_ Inspector General, which should do just fine for their purposes.   
  
On the day he arrives in camp, all aides bar Fitzgerald are to be found toiling dutifully in the office, Tilghman complaining he so hungry he may well decide to eat Meade’s hat.   
  
Meade only snorts, throws the offending hat across the room, safely out of Tilghman’s reach, and sighs.   
  
“Perhaps this supposedly talented Prussian General we gain may also fix our supplies?”   
  
Mifflin is Quartermaster once more, for Congress can find no replacement, but there be growing murmurs of corrupt dealings, and Valley Forge certainly sees no further desperately needed supplies, despite his reappointment. Men grow hungrier and colder; there have been instances of some starving and freezing to death in turn.   
  
Harrison makes a sceptical face. “I think he may fix our army’s discipline at least; our supply regulations are, I fear, still in the hands of Congress.”   
  
“And Reed,” Hamilton supplies cheekily.   
  
“And Mifflin,” Meade inserts crossly.   
  
Harrison only huffs, deigns these words with no reply.   
  
Laurens blots his page as a particularly loud _bang_ reverberates through headquarters, grimaces when such means this page shall be no good.   
  
The last of the cabins in camp be nearly built now; the cabin meant for the aides taking shape behind Potts’ House at last.   
  
Laurens is not particularly keen to leave the garret for this cabin, as it should mean sacrificing what privacy he has so enjoyed with Hamilton the past few weeks, once Hamilton recovered from his recurrent bout of fever.   
  
Tilghman makes a noise of frustration. “I think my mind can take no more of this noise of construction before it may cease functioning at any significant level.”  
  
The rest of the aides hum or murmur with agreement.   
  
Laurens turns his mind back to his paperwork; he has still three letters from various officers to read and answer, correspondence from his father to grit his teeth through, and a further draft on some regulations for the Committee, who still reside in camp at present.   
  
Before he can even begin work on any of these, however, Fitzgerald sweeps briskly into the room, shaking snow from his hat and coat.   
  
“He is arrived!” he announces loudly, jubilantly.   
  
Harrison frowns, clearly interrupted from some work, and as such rather confused. “I think you need be more specific, Sir.”  
  
“Oh,” laughs Fitzgerald; it has been quite a time since Laurens beheld him so cheerful. “Why, the Baron of course!”  
  
All aides lift their heads from their desks abruptly; anticipation and excitement seems to suddenly swell in the air and seep through Laurens’ skin.   
  
“Well?” demands Hamilton; his eyes flick to Laurens’, and Laurens cannot stop a grin. “What is he like? Leave us not in suspense, Sir!”   
  
Fitzgerald only waggles his eyebrows. “I shall do just that; I should not spoil such a surprise. The General brings him here, so you all may meet him forthwith.”   
  
Tilghman stands, begins to put on hat and coat.   
  
Meade stares at him. “And where should you be going all of a sudden?”   
  
Tilghman grins sharply. “To welcome the Baron, Sir; anything may seem better than this badly written letter I struggle through.”  
  
At Tilghman’s words, all the rest of the aides simultaneously move to follow his example, bar Harrison, who snorts at their eagerness.   
  
“I should think the General shall bring him inside to meet us anyhow; we may as well continue our work.”  
  
“Nay!” cries Tilghman. “There is such little fun to be had in this place, you would spoil this for us also?”  
  
Harrison blinks, appears to think, shrugs. “Indeed, you are right.” He makes to follow the rest of them, placing quill down carefully.   
  
Laurens smirks at the interest shining clear in Harrison’s eyes; he may wish to appear the most mature of them, but even he can only pretend noninterest in this.

  
Outside, Laurens regrets their enthusiasm a little, for it be still snowing, and the wind wears quite a chill; they have none of them received new clothes in some months, and things begin to seem a little threadbare.   
  
As they wait, all chattering animatedly, he feels a light touch against his chilled hands.   
  
Hamilton.   
  
Hamilton leans close, so that he may murmur only to Laurens.   
  
“You have heard the rumours that follow the Baron from Europe to our shores?”  
  
Laurens presses his lips together. He has—of course, he has. His father and Congress, though they cannot turn away a man with such experience as they so greatly need, are still somewhat aware of what whispers may follow Baron von Steuben.   
  
They discard them, for they dearly need him, but that does not mean they do not persist in being aired by certain tongues.   
  
“Aye, I have heard them.”  
  
Hamilton hums. “Do you think they are true?”   
  
Laurens shrugs. “I think it matters not if they are true; he is unlikely to admit to them, and we sorely require his skill in army discipline, anyhow.”   
  
Hamilton bumps his hand against Laurens’ again. “I think it matters.”   
  
Laurens frowns. “Why so? Surely, we of all may not judge him, if such is true.”  
  
Hamilton glances around, seems to make certain none of the other aides notice their quiet conversation. “Nay, not for judgment. I only worry—men alike may recognise alike.”  
  
Laurens feels he might rebuke them as _alike_ for surely he has so defined to himself that _love_ should differ greatly to _lust_ but—  
  
“You think he may say something of us?” He lowers his voice even further, so that the wind may shield all their words. “Surely that should only endanger him also?”  
  
Hamilton worries at his lip with his teeth. “Perhaps; but one cannot know what another may do to save his skin, to pretend his own innocence.”  
  
Laurens shakes his head. “I think you worry at something unnecessary.”   
  
And he does, but now Hamilton has mentioned it, he cannot shake a new foreboding feeling that creeps so darkly across his person.

  
It is Tilghman who spots the General and Baron von Steuben riding through the mud churned snow towards them, accompanied by a third man, though none of them know who this may be.   
  
Even at distance, von Steuben seems a towering figure, which should be all the more striking for the General’s own great height riding beside him.   
  
“Lord,” Meade exclaims. “It is no wonder Congress should seem so impressed; the man seems perhaps alike to the ancient Gods of war.”  
  
Harrison huffs. “That seems a touch dramatic, Meade.”  
  
Fitzgerald only grins. “I told you he should seem a surprise.”  
  
Hamilton says nothing; a significant rarity that the other aides appear to overlook in their excitement.   
  
The horses approach, and all three men dismount, servants quickly appearing to take their reins from them.   
  
“Gentlemen,” smiles Washington. His eyes dance; he too seems greatly cheered by Baron von Steuben’s arrival. “I see you all keen to meet our temporary Inspector General.” He gestures at the Baron, who is jovially smiling at all the aides-de-camp, his eyes flitting between Washington and they. “May I introduce to you, Baron von Steuben.”  
  
The Baron says something quickly to the other man, who replies in turn; Laurens thinks the language German, at first, but then realises that it must certainly contain a dialect of German he recognises not, for the Baron being Prussian.   
  
“ _Le Baron est heureux de vous rencontrer_ ,” this other man then says, in rapid French.   
  
“The Baron is pleased to make your acquaintance,” Hamilton quickly translates for those of the aides that do not speak French, and Washington.  
  
It seems translation may prove a larger issue than they so thought, if the Baron cannot speak particularly fluent French, his man possesses little English in turn, and the General knows not a shred of French nor German.  
  
Washington smiles tightly at the exchanged translations, gestures at the as yet unnamed man. “May I also present Pierre Etienne Du Ponceau, the Baron’s Military Secretary.” Washington pauses. “He speaks French, as you see, though not English yet particularly; I imagine that you three should be so required for this work.”   
  
With these words, he gestures at Hamilton, Tilghman and Laurens.  
  
The aides all bow slightly to Du Ponceau, who bows politely in turn. He seems a very young man to hold such a position, small and slight; perhaps younger even than their dear Lafayette.   
  
“ _Parlez vous_ _français_?” Du Ponceau queries of the aides.   
  
Meade, Fitzgerald and Harrison shake their heads regretfully; even if they possess no real French, they do understand this query, as it all too frustratingly common amongst the French officers already present in camp.   
  
“ _Oui_ ,” Laurens responds. Hamilton and Tilghman echo him a moment later.   
  
“Ah,” replies Du Ponceau, appearing pleased. “ _C’est bien_.” He glances carefully at the three of them in turn; gestures towards them as he says something in German to von Steuben.   
  
von Steuben’s gaze shifts to Hamilton, Laurens and Tilghman, sharp eyes lingering on each of their faces.   
  
The Baron gestures at Hamilton, says something in German to Du Ponceau, who blinks, eyebrows raised ever so slightly; he appears to try and suppress a smile.   
  
Hamilton frowns; Du Ponceau shakes his head.   
  
Laurens feels Hamilton’s eyes upon him, and shrugs very slightly. He possesses very little German, and none of it at all similar to whatever dialect von Steuben so spoke.   
  
“ _Je pense que nous marcherons_ _très bien ensemble_ ,” be all Du Ponceau finally says.   
  
“I think we will work very well together,” Laurens finds himself translating for the General, though truly, he knows not whether Du Ponceau means for His Excellency to be included in this comment, but also does not know why he should feel this the case.   
  
“I should very much wish for that,” Washington responds, Hamilton dutifully translating to French, and then Du Ponceau to German.  
  
Laurens sighs as inaudibly as he may; he thinks he already in possession of a headache with such difficulties in speech as this.   
  
The Baron says something else, this time more forcefully, gesturing Du Ponceau at the three French speaking aides.   
  
Du Ponceau clears his throat. “ _Le baron veut savoir si les trois travaillent avec lui, ou juste_ —?” He waves his hand in Hamilton’s direction.   
  
Washington frowns at the three of them. “Well?”  
  
Tilghman and Laurens exchange a glance; Hamilton rolls his eyes.   
  
“The Baron wants to know if only I shall assist him, or all three of us.”  
  
Washington seems a little confused. “All three in turn, I should think, considering the volume of work we must undertake in our office as well.” The General turns and addresses himself directly to Baron von Steuben. “All three shall assist, Sir. Lieutenant Colonels Hamilton and Tilghman, and Mr. Laurens.”   
  
He points them out as their names are said, and this whole production should now become a pantomime, as Hamilton speaks such words in French, complete with gestures, and then Du Ponceau does so again, with even more elaborate gestures.   
  
Out the corner of his eye, Laurens spies Meade attempting to contain laughter, as should be so shamefully impolite—but also not entirely unwarranted, though truly it can be judged none’s fault but the accidents of language at birth.   
  
“Ah!” exclaims the Baron. He says something more; Laurens cannot catch anything, of course, except that he thinks von Steuben may say Hamilton’s name?  
  
All glance at Du Ponceau for a translation.   
  
He spreads his hands in a gesture of _worry not_. “ _Ça ne fait rien_.”  
  
Laurens notices Hamilton frown a little; Tilghman appears puzzled. He cannot shake the feeling that von Steuben jests at their expense, secure in the knowledge Du Ponceau shall not repeat it. This likely nonsense, of course, but—Well. It just feels somewhat odd that a man of such calibre as the Baron should require all his words spoken through a mouthpiece.   
  
Though it certain von Steuben should trust Du Ponceau completely, else he would not be here, Laurens is not yet so sure Washington’s office may do the same.   
  
Thankfully, however, he, Hamilton and Tilghman are saved any more oddness of mixed languages by Mrs. Washington appearing in the doorway, forcefully instructing them in for tea, “Else they all catch cold, standing around foolishly in the snow,” and all troop shivering inside, with shameful ducked heads that they have been caught behaving in the manner of a child awaiting some special relative’s homecoming.

***

Post the Baron’s establishment at Valley Forge, the days very quickly turn to a particular kind of routine.  
  
Each morn, Hamilton, Tilghman, Laurens, or perhaps all three, be required to report to von Steuben’s headquarters; there, they are given the French translations of Du Ponceau, who in turn has translated the Baron’s German. Then, some may return to Washington’s headquarters, work on English translation, report these new orders to Harrison and the General, who may then see them done the next day.  
  
Other times, one or two may stay and assist in discussions between the General and von Steuben, when there are more complicated ideas to be debated and shared.   
  
This should be a rather slow process, truly, but unfortunately, there be no better alternative until such time as the Baron may learn some English, or the General become miraculously fluent in German or French.   
  
Laurens much prefers when he assigned only to translation, for he appreciates being out from under the Baron’s sharp gaze, and Du Ponceau’s odd looks, and also—he dislikes how Hamilton appears to grow to like them so.   
  
It were Hamilton who warned of the rumours surrounding the Baron, and yet suddenly, he seems at perfect ease in his and his aide’s company, sharing quick jests with Du Ponceau, uproarious laughter with the Baron when translations prove smooth; his French sometimes so quick Laurens himself may lose track, and dislikes feeling as though he the butt of the joke, even if this likely entirely untrue.   
  
  
A change the Baron wishes to implement involves the training and drilling of the army. This is, of course, essential, as their army lacks any proper discipline, or knowledge of field positions.  
  
To establish such as this, the Baron asks the General for one hundred and twenty men, whom he aims to train as a sort of honour guard, Laurens gathers, who may in turn train the rest of the men, so that the entire army learns the discipline of these drills.   
  
The Baron therefore begins work on a set of regulations, laying out exactly how to train and discipline an army such as this. These reports must be written, translated and given Washington by the eve of each day, so he may instruct his men come daybreak.   
  
Hamilton and General Greene are co-opted into such, where Greene assists with development of regulations also, as does Hamilton; Hamilton further chosen for this by his French being slightly quicker than that of Tilghman and Laurens, who are relegated more often to the simpler translation tasks.   
  
Though von Steuben possesses little English, what he does possess, it seems, are swears. This oddly makes him incredibly popular among the men he drills, for his curiously strong temper, and voluminous swears of _g_ _oddamn!_ seem only to endear him to them, where one might usually suppose men like this might resent such.   
  
An awkwardness remains in dealing with Washington and Baron von Steuben; Laurens dislikes the feeling of understanding words that his superior cannot, and so finds a small part of shared sympathy with Du Ponceau in this, at least.

  
One evening at the end of the month of February, where the Baron has been in camp almost a week, finds Laurens and Tilghman working through the last of the day’s report translations, seated with the rest of Washington’s aides, and Hamilton somewhere else, likely still with Du Ponceau and von Steuben.   
  
Tilghman is chuckling. “I pity the poor souls who shall be tasked with digging the new latrines.”  
  
“Pardon?” queries Meade, sounding confused. “What are you so harping on about now, Sir?”  
  
Tilghman waves his pages of French. “The Baron wishes new kitchens and new latrines, to be built and dug on opposite sides of camp.”  
  
“Ah.” Meade makes a face of agreement. “I certainly see the logic in such, but should not volunteer my services for it.”  
  
“No, indeed not,” Tilghman concurs, then mutters some French under his breath; likely attempts to understand some particularly convoluted phrase.   
  
Laurens sighs. “He also wishes the cabins be assigned according to rank and company; separate rows for command, officers and enlisted men.”  
  
Harrison looks up from his own work, now. “I suppose that should make camp far more orderly.” He shakes his head. “I confess myself ashamed we have not thought of such afore now.”  
  
Laurens shrugs. “Our army not so experienced as many the Baron has served under in Europe, I am sure.”  
  
“In any case,” Fitzgerald now points out. “We were, and remain, in rather dire straits in terms of our supply; that our primary worry at present. Having the Baron for all else means less work for Washington and us, at least.”  
  
“Indeed.” Harrison sighs; his tone grows frustrated. “How we have not secured proper supply yet infuriates me, I must confess. One might think Mifflin could—”   
  
Fitzgerald raises his eyebrows. “Mifflin should do nothing but line his own pockets instead of our stomachs.”  
  
“Do you know,” adds Tilghman, clearly pausing in his translation. “That I saw a man near to nakedness in the snow this morn? When I queried on the state of him, he said another of his company were involved in the Baron’s drills, and so required some clothes for it. It seems we are so low on such, men share items to make a whole outfit for one who must leave his cabin!”  
  
“ _Damnation_ ,” Meade explodes suddenly, interrupting Tilghman’s list of woes, and all stop speaking at such; he rarely one for indulging in short temper.   
  
“Meade?” Laurens finally finds himself querying, when none else seem keen to speak.   
  
Meade glares at the letter he seemingly reads. “The Marquis,” he grinds out, and Laurens’ stomach drops unpleasantly.   
  
“He is not injured or unwell, I hope?”   
  
Meade pauses, blinks. “Ah, no, apologies. I do not mean to alarm so; he is well. In health, at least, if not in spirit.”  
  
“Why so?” Harrison asks, somewhat sternly.   
  
Meade only sighs, shakes his head, holds out his letters, of which there are several. They are passed around the office, and each man makes a face, tuts, as he reads them.   
  
Laurens takes comfort in Lafayette’s familiar English mistakes; but that is all he may take comfort in, for Lafayette, it seems, has been utterly deceived by the Board of War.   
  
There are no troops in Albany, no such money for paying any troops, no ammunition, no arms, nor any other supplies; the Commanders present there having no idea that Gates had approved such an expedition.   
  
It seems that Generals Schuyler, Lincoln and Arnold had already written Conway saying there were no hope of a Canadian invasion at this time, but that Gates had neglected to mention this all important fact to Lafayette.   
  
And now he there, with some command that means nothing, personally wounded and insulted by the Americans.   
  
Laurens fears his friend may yet depart this country altogether after such an awful slight.  
  
For now, Lafayette has made camp with his officers, including de Kalb, and awaits further instruction from Congress, spending his time attempting to wrangle some order and discipline into an unexpected battalion of troops he discovers near Albany in absolute anarchy.   
  
The only positive to be had in all this is that Lafayette manages to keep Conway isolated and occupied by paper assignments thus far, but he writes that he fears—  
 _  
—that the actual scheme is to have me out of this part of the continent, and General Conway in chief under the immediate direction of Gates—how they will bring it up I do not know—but be certain something of that kind will appear—  
_  
All round, it is a bad situation, made worse as Lafayette also fears to lose face in Europe, for many there know of his being appointed this task.  
  
“It seems to me,” Harrison finally pronounces dourly. “That Gates should mean to thwart the Marquis in his command, as the Marquis so managed to outfox him with his own demands afore he left us.”   
  
“If some British solider would somehow manage to catch Conway in the neck with musket ball,” Tilghman jests grimly, “I should think to award him anything he may desire, despite his Britishness.”   
  
“I should not like to be the one to inform the General of this,” Fitzgerald remarks quietly.   
  
The aides all glance round the office at this, each man begging with his gaze that such a task be not assigned to him.   
  
Harrison stands, sighs. “I suppose I shall have to go to it.”  
  
Meade grins sharply. “Perhaps ask Mrs. Washington to accompany you; His Excellency may not throw glassware if she is also present.”  
  
Harrison huffs. “Such useful advice you deign to give me, Sir.”  
  
“I try,” Meade replies, eyes dancing with mirth. “In any case, at least it not Hamilton’s task.”  
  
“No, indeed,” agrees Tilghman. “Or it may end in more than broken glassware; punches thrown, perhaps, or charges of insubordination.”  
  
“Ha,” espouses a sarcastic tone from the doorway; it is Hamilton, hat and coat sprinkled liberally with snow.   
  
“Ah.” Meade pulls a face. “I did not notice you there, Hammie.”  
  
“Clearly,” Hamilton remarks dryly.   
  
Silence falls awkwardly, as Harrison strides from the room.   
  
“I did not mean it,” Meade offers lightly. “We only jest.”  
  
Hamilton shrugs. “The most effective jests are created from truth, and so it is with this.”  
  
Meade narrows his eyes, seeming to attempt to understand whether Hamilton truly offended.   
  
Hamilton sighs. “I mean to say, you only observe correctly. The General and I are often found to be at odds, lately.”  
  
Meade nods, smiles tentatively. “This place makes short tempers shorter with ease, I think.”  
  
“Indeed,” Hamilton agrees, then turns his attention to Laurens. “I have been requested by the General, but there is yet more the Baron wishes to discuss with Greene. If you or Tilghman—?”  
  
“Your spoken French be quicker than mine, Laurens,” Tilghman offers.   
  
Laurens is sure he means such as a compliment, but would rather not. Still, he must now concede. “I shall go then.”  
  
As Laurens brushes past Hamilton, who still lingers in the doorway, Hamilton’s hand briefly touches his; his gaze flicks to Laurens as he murmurs:   
  
“Do not tarry over long,” and winks.   
  
Laurens summons what he thinks a convincing smirk in reply; though he a little irritated with Hamilton at present, this should not truly affect his overall temperament, nor his feelings, and yet, there is a lingering blackness to his thoughts.   
  
He worries, for he has lengthy experience with the darkness of such moods, though has not properly fallen into one since first he met Hamilton, and had hoped he should never again.   
  
He smiles more determinedly, flickers his fingers playfully against Hamilton’s hand as they manoeuvre around each other.   
  
“I will not,” he murmurs in reply.   
  
“Hammie,” calls Meade suddenly, “Stop distracting poor Laurens; you block the doorway!”   
  
All present laugh; Hamilton throws some jest at Meade that summons theatrical outrage, as Laurens slips on coat and hat, dashes out into the darkening cold.

  
Thank the Lord, but it only near a fifteen minute walk to where the Baron’s headquarters have been created in the house of one James White; it should prove most irritating if he had been given lodging at so far a distance as Lafayette were, with the French speaking aides-de-camp trio being required there each day.   
  
General Greene welcomes Laurens enthusiastically as he makes his way into the house, stamping snow and mud from his boots.   
  
“Ah, Laurens! Thank God; Hamilton did promise to send another in his absence.”   
  
Laurens nods deferentially to Greene. “Yes, Sir, and so he sends me.”  
  
Greene smiles, waves him towards the familiar office of Baron von Steuben. “I would give most anything to possess more French than I do at this current moment.”  
  
“What have you been so discussing, Sir?”   
  
Greene pulls a face. “I think the proper drilling of muskets; commands to fire and such like. Or we were, afore Hamilton left anyhow.”   
  
Laurens manually runs through the French words he knows for such things; quick spoken French of these sorts of army terms has proved somewhat difficult, as they not particularly concepts he discussed when living in Geneva.   
  
“I shall try my best, Sir, though I think myself rather slower than Hamilton.”  
  
Greene only smiles, hums, waits as Laurens opens the office door. “I think perhaps Hamilton may be somewhat native to French? There is a distinct advantage to be had, there.”  
  
Laurens blinks in surprise. Of course, others may notice Hamilton near as adept with French as English, but he wonders what Greene may assume of his background from this, and what Hamilton may think of such if he realised.   
  
In the office, the Baron greets them loudly and spiritedly, as is usual.   
  
“Ah! Laurens!”   
  
“ _Je suis reconnaissant que vous êtes ici!_ ” Du Ponceau adds in translation.   
  
Laurens restrains a grimace; he be _not_ so happy he is here.   
  
Quickly, conversation begins again; Laurens takes a seat beside Du Ponceau, ready to translate also.   
  
It seems Greene were correct; the Baron is dictating the proper order of firing commands, and manual exercises.   
  
“ _Tournez le canon opposé à votre visage et placez votre pouce sur_ —” Du Ponceau repeats dutifully.   
  
Laurens begins to write; stifles a laugh.   
  
Greene must notice. “What does he say?”   
  
Laurens quickly hides his mirth; it an immature jest, truly. “Turn the barrel away from your face, and place your thumb upon the cock.”  
  
Greene’s eyebrows raise; a small smile dances over his lips. “Ah, I see.” He clears his throat, gesturing at the Baron. “Please continue, Sir.”   
  
“ _Monsieur continuez, s'il vous plait_ ,” Laurens repeats; must stifle a sigh. He should honestly prefer written translation to this.   
  
Eventually, as always seems to occur thus far when Laurens attends to this duty, Du Ponceau speaks a phrase too fast for him to follow, and as Hamilton not present, he cannot step in where Laurens flounders.   
  
“ _Répétez_ , _s'il vous plait_ ,” he asks quietly.   
  
Du Ponceau rolls his eyes; he truly appears very young for this. “ _Je l'ai déjà répéter_.”   
_  
I have already repeated it_.   
  
“Oh.” Laurens grimaces. “Damn.”   
  
The Baron laughs; 'damn' is a word all already know him to enjoy the expressive cadences of.  
  
Du Ponceau taps his quill against the desk lightly, exchanges some rapid German with the Baron, who seems to mention Hamilton, perhaps?   
  
“ _I apologise,”_ Du Ponceau begins in French, almost insultingly slowly. “ _But I forget you not so fast nor as native to my language as votre Hamilton_.”  
  
Laurens glares, begins constructing what he hopes a somewhat impolite response to this, when he realises what, exactly, Du Ponceau has said.   
_  
Votre Hamilton_.   
  
Your Hamilton.   
  
Laurens freezes slightly, forces himself to calmly place his quill in the inkpot. He knows pronouns and tenses to be a little different in French as compared to English; it could simply be that Du Ponceau refers to Hamilton as belonging to the aides’ trio in general, not just to Laurens, but—  
  
This does appear a deliberate taunt.   
  
“ _Votre Hamilton_?” Laurens questions tersely.   
  
Du Ponceau tilts his head slightly, jabs his elbow against Laurens’ side, in what could, perhaps, be a teasing manner, if the subject matter were not so serious.   
  
“ _Oui_ , _votre Hamilton_.”   
  
Laurens stares at Du Ponceau, crosses his arms, flicks his eyes to the Baron, who seems to watch them closely; it is likely he understands this simple French, at least, which does nothing to reassure Laurens.  
  
“ _Ce n’est pas mon Hamilton_.”   
  
“ _Non_?” Du Ponceau smiles softly. “ _Je pense qu'il est_.”  
  
Greene’s gaze flicks between them. “What does he say of Hamilton, Laurens?”   
  
Laurens is startled from his French conversation, and finds himself suddenly more than a little terrified to remember Greene does possess a small amount of French.   
  
He schools his face as neutrally as possible. “Only that he rather more adept at French than I.”  
  
Greene huffs. “I think you a credit to our army, Laurens, and as neither of these gentlemen seem to possess much English, I do not think they can scrutinise your French too harshly.”  
  
Laurens thinks perhaps he need not translate that.   
  
  
They continue in this vein of language muddled debate between Greene and von Steuben a while longer, until the Baron, according to Du Ponceau anyhow, declares it getting far too late for any more such work. He seems to glance almost suggestively at Du Ponceau as he says such, and the younger man flushes a little.   
  
Laurens thinks he should like to run as far from this office as he may, lest he be caught in this twisting web also.   
  
He and Hamilton have their own crimes to hide; they need not be party to any else’s.   
  
Greene bids them cheerily goodnight, departing before Laurens has even finished packing his things for the trek back to headquarters.   
  
As the Baron leaves the room also, he turns and declares that he hopes Laurens has a goodnight in heavily accented and somewhat insinuating French, so that Laurens suddenly understands him clear; it is strange to hear him alone, and not through a translator.   
  
von Steuben says something more to Du Ponceau in German, mentioning both Hamilton and Laurens by name.   
  
“What does he say?” Laurens demands heatedly, before remembering to repeat himself in French.   
  
Du Ponceau shakes his head, but Laurens can stand no more of this awful insinuation, where they imply they know of certain things, but will not say such clear.   
  
“ _J'insiste_!”   
  
Du Ponceau pulls a face; seems to wave his hand in a manner that asks _do not blame the messenger_.   
  
“ _Il m'a dit que vous et votre Hamilton faites une paire belle_.”  
  
Laurens’ eyes widen; he can summon no words but to carefully and politely bid Du Ponceau _bonne nuit_ as though he did not just hear what he so spoke.   
_  
He says you and your Hamilton make a handsome pair_.   
  
This phrase haunts him on the dark, cold walk back to headquarters.   
  
Does the Baron truly mean to imply himself privy to their hidden sins? Or does he jest, merely mean that they both handsome men (though this still rather odd to declare), and it a coincidence such as they be friends?  
  
Laurens fears it the former, and this does nothing for his slowly blackening mood.

***

Upon his fairly late return to headquarters, Laurens finds that there are none left in the office.   
  
Currently, this not particularly unusual, as by eve, it should become more and more difficult to ignore hunger and cold; beds are craved, met, awoken from, the cycle begins again.   
  
Usually, however, if there be any still awake, it would be Hamilton. And yet, he not present in the office, nor is he present in Washington’s, for the General appears retired to bed also.   
  
Laurens decides he ought to retreat to the garret; makes his way quietly upstairs, pausing outside the main aides’ bedroom, hears nothing but shuffles and snores.   
  
The door to the garret is closed, so Laurens turns the knob as slow as he may, in the (unlikely) chance Hamilton should already be abed.   
  
He is not.   
  
“Alexander?”   
  
Hamilton looks up from the chair where he sits, perched with one knee up, travel desk resting against his thigh as he writes.   
  
“Ah! Give me but a moment.”   
  
Laurens does so by entering the garret quietly, closing the door once more. He sits on the edge of the bed, slowly removes his boots; his toes feel so numb he near fears frostbite.   
  
With a sigh, he watches Hamilton in the glow of the candle.   
  
It seems a black mood has well and truly begun to settle over him, for even the love he should feel beholding Hamilton as this does not seem to inspire much cheer.  
  
“What do you work on?”  
  
Hamilton hums, holds a finger up in a gesture of _pause_.   
  
Laurens rolls his eyes, begins to unknot his cravat instead. “I think I shall talk to myself.”   
  
Hamilton makes no reply but to tilt his head slightly in an estimation of listening.   
  
Laurens presses his lips together. “I think Washington may quit, Reed should be Commander-in-Chief, and I shall take a job at a tanner’s.”  
  
“Pardon?” Now, Hamilton’s head shoots up. “You shall do what?”   
  
Laurens huffs a laugh. “Only nonsense; I test whether you listen or no.”   
  
Hamilton raises his eyebrows, places the travel desk upon the floor, straightens with arms round his raised knee, chin nestled in the crook of his elbow.   
  
His eyes spark with luminous mischief in the soft candlelight. “I do not think you much suited to a tanner’s, nor Reed to such a position of leadership.”  
  
Laurens crosses his arms. “You _were_ listening.”   
  
“To you?” questions Hamilton. “Always, my dear.”  
  
That does prompt a small smile on Laurens’ part; he feels the black cloud waver, if only a little.   
  
“What do you work on?” he repeats.  
  
Hamilton hums. “I think Greene may be our next Quartermaster.”  
  
In others words, he shall _not_ tell Laurens what he so works on.   
  
Despite his frustration at this, Laurens decided he has not the energy for an argument on what secret tasks Washington may assign Hamilton at this moment.   
  
“Oh?” he finally responds, tiredly. “I thought Greene had already refused the post several times over, as it too administrative for how he should like to serve.”  
  
This sentiment he and Hamilton both understand clearly.  
  
“He has.” Hamilton shrugs wearily. “But I think he shall cave eventually; he sees how we all suffer under Mifflin and Trumbull, and cannot help trying to correct such as that.”  
  
Laurens only watches Hamilton softly, feels exhaustion and hunger and cold deep in his bones. He is _tired_ goddamn it; this entire army is tired.   
  
“I thought General Schuyler were being petitioned for Quartermaster by Washington and the Committee here?”  
  
Hamilton shakes his head. “He is out of favour with Congress; they will not appoint him.” His face lights up slightly. “He does have lovely daughters, anyhow.”  
  
Laurens does not care to hear about General Schuyler’s lovely daughters, but—  
  
“How do you know of his daughters?”   
  
Hamilton waves a dismissive hand. “I met them in Albany; only briefly, mind.”  
  
Laurens huffs uncomfortably, looks away. Some self-destructive whim whispers at him to query: “Are they of the marriageable sort?”   
  
There is an odd kind of silence, as though the room itself holds a wary breath; Hamilton rises from the chair, paces across the tiny garret to sit beside Laurens on the bed.   
  
“Marriageable, yes, certainly. But not by me, for my heart is given already.”  
  
Laurens only continues staring away, switches gaze to the floor. “I think that should not matter, if they marriageable enough. Schuyler’s status—”   
  
“Means nothing,” Hamilton replies harshly; he lays a hand upon Laurens’ thigh, the warmth of it contrasting with the aching exhaustion present in both Laurens’ mind and body. “I told you once before I should not need a wife if I have you.”  
  
Laurens only sighs. “Those be pretty words, Alexander, but that is all they are. Our hearts may be given to one another, but our lives cannot be shared.”  
  
Hamilton huffs, squeezes Laurens’ thigh, hard enough that he winces from the feel of his fingernails.   
  
“You be too obsessed with _after_. We must survive the present first.”  
  
“You must,” replies Laurens. A moment later, the hateful mood upon him prompts: “I must not.”  
  
For although much has changed between them since first they met, since first they so spoke of their ambitions for this revolution, the crux of the matter remains unchanged: Laurens should hope for nothing more than glory in death; Hamilton should hope for this at the very least, but he should much prefer he survive to place his own fingerprints upon the American legacy.  
  
Hamilton’s hands are suddenly grasping Laurens’ arms tight, turning him roughly towards him so that their eyes are forced into meeting.   
  
“Do not speak so cruelly, Sir. You would leave me to this goddamned world? Alone?”  
  
Laurens blinks, wishes to snatch back these words that no part of him but this darkness intended.   
  
“No,” he whispers. “No, I would not. I am morbid this eve, I apologise. I seem not a good conversationalist.”  
  
Hamilton ducks forward swiftly, presses a rough open mouthed kiss upon Laurens, bites his lip deliberately as he pulls away; Laurens’ eyes water from the sharp pain.   
  
“What ails you?” Hamilton whispers. “You have seemed out of sorts since first we awoke this morn.”  
  
Laurens shrugs helplessly; he has never known quite how to explain or describe the darkness that should swallow his countenance on occasion, make all things too heavy, simple tasks too difficult to bear.   
  
“I am tired, Alexander, that is all. I am tired, and hungry. Our army starves, and freezes, and dies in the snow at our feet. Our dear Lafayette is betrayed and insulted by our country’s Congress, and Du Ponceau should somehow manage to put me in foul mood every time we speak.”  
  
Hamilton blinks rapidly; clearly, this confuses him somewhat. “Du Ponceau?” he frowns. “What happened this eve, when you were with the Baron? And do not say nothing, for I know that to be a falsehood.”  
  
Laurens stands, shrugs his coat off, lays it upon the chair.   
  
Hamilton watches him through narrowed eyes, takes his own coat off, passes it to him.   
  
“Jack?”   
  
Laurens slumps; the sound of _Jack_ upon Hamilton’s lips should ever catch him in its sweet spell. “I think they know of us, of our—” He grimaces. “Our affections.”  
  
Hamilton stands abruptly. “The Baron and Du Ponceau?”   
  
“ _Oui_ ,” Laurens replies sourly. “ _Il dit que vous et votre Hamilton faites une belle paire_.”  
  
Hamilton frowns. “Du Ponceau said such to you? Truly? So openly as that?”   
  
Laurens only nods. “He were translating what the Baron said, but yes. I think he believes himself guarded by language.”  
  
“And he truly told you such?”   
  
“Aye.” Laurens crosses his arms. “As I said. He did not wish to divulge it, but I insisted.”  
  
Hamilton purses his lips. “The Baron were not teasing? He teases me greatly, and often.”   
  
“Teasing?” Laurens gapes. “Why, even if he were, I should think it not in good taste!”  
  
Hamilton appears to bite the inside of his cheek. “The Baron often says inappropriate jests; I think such to be harmless.”  
  
“Harmless?” Laurens stares. “I do not know what jokes he makes to you, but where he implies knowledge of sodomy, I think I should not find them jokes.”   
  
Hamilton massages his brow, stares up at Laurens through his fingers. “I truly believe he means us no harm; only perhaps some shared understanding.”  
  
“Oh!” Laurens exclaims; he cannot quite pinpoint why this should anger him so, but it does. “Of course! And what, we should make a merry quartet of sodomites? _Damn it_ , Hamilton!”   
  
Hamilton glares now, takes a step closer to Laurens. “Keep your voice down, Sir, else the entire house hear.” He rolls his eyes, clearly irate. “You did not behave this way with Lafayette’s knowing.”  
  
“I should think not!” Laurens shoves a finger roughly into Hamilton’s chest. “Lafayette is one of our dearest friends, and even then, I were angered and terrified when first he spoke of what he guessed. Even now, I do not like it overly, for it makes one more complicit in our crimes, one more who may reveal us so!”   
  
Hamilton swats Laurens’ hand away, crosses his arms, steps forward once again so that he no more than a few inches away, toe to toe. “Even if they knew—and we have given them no evidence of the sort—I think them like us, and I think they shall not share our secrets.”  
  
“Did you not warn me of exactly this?” Laurens demands, makes sure he lowers his tone to a heated whisper, now. “And yet suddenly you posit so convincingly that they no such danger to us?”   
  
Hamilton reaches out, grasps Laurens’ right hand tight; Laurens deliberately tenses in his grasp. “I think so long as they be confined to teasing in German, then _oui_ , there be no danger.”  
  
“And you think them like us?” Laurens tries to remove his hand, but Hamilton holds it fast. “I do not think them like us.” He finds his voice suddenly as icy as the weather this place delivers.  
  
Hamilton raises his eyebrows. “You do not?”  
  
Laurens finds he cannot meet Hamilton’s eye. “No. When I were in Europe, I saw some men like the Baron; older men, with their younger entourage.”   
  
“Ah.” Hamilton sighs. “You think their crimes be worse than ours? I think a judge should convict us of one sin all the same, whether you think them equal sins or no.”  
  
Laurens breathes in sharp, breathes out sharper, squeezes Hamilton’s hand hard enough that Hamilton makes a slight face of discomfit. “I think there a difference between love and lust. Did you not tell me so?”  
  
Hamilton frowns. “Aye, but I do not think I can judge in so short an acquaintance whether the Baron should love Du Ponceau or no, and—” He stops, eyes widening. “John, do you—”   
  
No, no.   
  
No.  
 _  
Oh, no._   
  
This cannot be said, it cannot, because things said as this cannot be unsaid, unspoken, unlearned, and certain pretences must remain intact—  
  
Laurens manages to extract his hand, turn away. “I am tired and illogical, perhaps. As you say, I may worry on foolish notions; a starved and freezing mind does not think clearly.”  
  
Hamilton watches him blankly as he stumbles to the bed, begins to further undress. He turns away from Hamilton’s gaze as he removes his stockings, cannot bear to see that strange wall slide over his face.   
  
When he finally turns back round, means to ask whether Hamilton retires to bed also, Hamilton is sitting on the chair once more, gaze narrowed on Laurens, expression odd.   
  
“Alexander?” Laurens asks softly.  
  
Hamilton lifts his knees to his chin, sits perched like this upon the chair. “I do not understand you, Jack.”  
  
Laurens frowns, perplexed. “I think you do; is that not what you said? That you understand my temperament now?”   
  
Hamilton sighs, closes his eyes a moment. “In some things, yes. In others, no.”  
  
This seems a rather pointless line of reasoning to pursue.   
  
“Surely, we never understand anyone in all things?”  
  
Indeed, there be many aspects of Alexander Hamilton that should continue to puzzle Laurens.  
  
“Perhaps not.”   
  
There is another odd pause.   
  
“Are you coming to bed?” Laurens asks uncertainly, as he cannot think what else to say to break this strange, uneasy silence.   
  
Hamilton only watches him through the candlelight. “Do you wish me to?”   
  
And this, this is even stranger, this vulnerability that Hamilton seemingly displays.   
  
“Of course, else I would not say so.”  
  
Hamilton stands then, slowly, removes his own stockings, vest and cravat. “I only ask because you continually speak of when we may not be together, after this war. Do you truly wish to be here, like this, in bed in this manner?”   
  
Laurens blinks, and— _oh_.   
  
He thinks he must ensure Hamilton has a way out of this, once this war is won or lost; thinks he must pretend himself amenable to Hamilton making a life for himself without Laurens in it. He thinks now, though, that on some level, Hamilton must read this as rejection, and though he knows the arrogance of Hamilton, he thinks at his core, this is to push away so he may not be injured. He offers an out, just as Laurens offers his.   
  
Perhaps the both of them should cease believing they know what be best for the other.   
  
“I am sorry, my dear boy,” Laurens finally whispers. “I suffer from ill temper, as I have said, but this not your fault, and I ought not press it upon you.”  
  
Hamilton seems to slump, then a small smile graces his lips. “I also am sorry, if it seems I dismiss your fears; you are right that caution ought to be employed where Baron von Steuben be concerned. He survives the rumours that surround him through his standing, but if we become so entwined, we may not.”  
  
Laurens hums, shoves the awfulness that pervades his mind down and away, attempts to lock it up securely, forces cheerful smirk to his lips. “And if any such rumours as that _were_ to surround us, what should they consist of?”   
  
Hamilton seems to frown a moment, confused, then appears to recognise the olive branch Laurens attempts to extend. He walks the few steps to the bed slowly.   
  
“Hmm. I think they may involve grave impropriety, Sir.”   
  
“Oh?” murmurs Laurens, watches Hamilton’s eyes darken in the candlelight. “Is that so?”   
  
“Indeed,” Hamilton replies, somewhat smugly, it must be said. He blows out the candle, so that they are suddenly enshrouded in darkness. “For I think they may mention that Alexander Hamilton, a Lieutenant Colonel and an aide-de-camp to General Washington no less, should desire greatly one John Laurens.”   
  
“A man?” whispers Laurens cheekily; he thinks over the time they have shared in this room, he grows more confident in his desiring Hamilton in turn.   
  
“Aye,” breathes Hamilton.   
  
Laurens gasps quietly, squirms as heat sparks through his veins when Hamilton settles over him in the dark. He feels a puff of air ghost across his face as Hamilton leans down, teases with small, close-mouthed kisses, murmurs the last few words heatedly against Laurens’ lips:   
  
“Dear God, John, how do you ignite such carnal feeling in me so easily?”   
  
And Laurens twists a hand in Hamilton’s hair, pulls roughly, swallows his moans into their kisses.

  
Unfortunately, as has been Laurens’ previous experiences with such dark moods that creep upon him, though he greatly enjoys what he and Hamilton engage in, once they spent, the pleasurable distraction over, and Hamilton lies slumbering, all such black thoughts come crowding back against the badly built walls of Laurens’ mind. He cannot sleep, the heaviness of these thoughts so as to near make him feel numb.   
  
He rises from bed, pulls on his coat, lights their candle once more, watches Hamilton sleep for a while. He appears so much younger whilst in dreams, unburdened by worries and responsibilities, lines of hunger erased.   
  
Perhaps Laurens should tell him of the love he so holds for him, but in this moment, this mood, the likelihood of Hamilton returning such feels utterly ridiculous, no matter what he may say.   
  
Instead, he decides upon the distraction of reading his father’s letters.   
  
This a badly chosen distraction, it seems, for his father finally makes reply to Laurens’ budding plan for slave emancipation in the south, and replies with little support for such an idea.  
  
In fact, Henry Laurens writes:   
  
— _have you considered that your kind intentions towards them would be deemed by them the highest cruelty…that they would interpret your humanity to be an exchange of slavery & circumstances not only tolerable, but comfortable from habit, for an intolerable existence—  
_  
As though these men should prefer slavery to war, and possible freedom!   
  
Also, he seems to imply Laurens should only wish to form this battalion, seek this command, for personal ambition which, his father suggests, could be settled by his asking to lead a white battalion in the south instead.   
  
On a personal level, this aggrieves Laurens greatly; to have his father suppose he only wishes for such a plan to be implemented so that he may receive praise and credit for it.   
  
To think his father may assume such about his character and his cause wounds him far more than he should like to suppose, particularly when he in so numb and dark a mood as this already.   
  
Whilst perhaps it should be better not to begin a reply in such a state, Laurens finds the lack of self-restraint he has long battled with giving way; he curses, scrounges in Hamilton’s travel desk for spare paper (having left his own in the office), begins an impassioned reply, though he hopes he does not convey how badly his father’s words have hurt him personally, only professionally.   
  
— _I am very sensibly affected by your imputing my plan in so large a degree to ambition—  
_  
is all he says on the subject of personal, and he thinks the restraint shown there to be rather admirable after all.   
  
He has just finished signing and dating the letter—wax and seal shall have to wait ‘til morn—when Hamilton stirs, must wake; Laurens regrets this, as Hamilton should forgo sleep far often enough already.   
  
“John?” he murmurs sleepily, voice rough from slumber. “What are you doing awake again at such an hour as this?”   
  
Laurens merely shakes his head, attempts a jest. “I could not sleep; I thought perhaps reading my father’s letters might achieve such a state.”  
  
“Hmm.” Hamilton pushes up blearily, rests on his elbow, squints into the dim light, regards Laurens. “You seem rather too alert for such as that to have been successful, I think.”   
  
Laurens makes a face. “It were not, after all, a slumber inducing letter.”  
  
Hamilton’s gaze flicks over his face carefully. “No, indeed. You appear somewhat—displeased?”   
  
Laurens sighs. A part of him may hate how accurately Hamilton should read his emotions; another part feels no small amount of glee that they may be known to each other so well now that this possible.   
  
“My father—” He frowns down at his written reply. “He disapproves of my black plan.”  
  
“Ah.” Hamilton sits up further. He is aware of such a plan, they having discussed it several times over the evenings they have shared this room, Hamilton making some suggestions for it. “I dislike being proven correct in such a fashion, but it did seem unlikely—”   
  
“Aye.” Laurens cuts him off. He has no wish to rehash this debate that Hamilton appears to have won. Though he should support abolition in theory (if not as ardently as Laurens), his belief in other men and Congress supporting the same is much more pessimistic. “In any case, I have replied; I shall see what he thinks of my refuting his arguments.”  
  
Hamilton nods. “Perhaps you ought to speak with Gouverneur Morris on this matter; his views align much with yours, I think.”  
  
Laurens frowns. “Of the Committee?” He has not interacted over much with Morris thus far, but he knows Hamilton has done so.  
  
“Aye, of the Committee.” Hamilton hums, pats the sheets lightly. “But for now, come back to bed, Jack. A clearer head may prevail better on this subject come morn.”  
  
Laurens sighs again, removes his coat once more, shivers. “It should seem a strange world where _you_ admonish _me_ for refusing sleep so.”  
  
Hamilton chuckles with a near wicked edge. “Who said any about sleep? I merely asked you back to bed.”  
  
Laurens snorts, rolls his eyes, blows out the candle and cautiously feels his way back under the sheets.   
  
“I think you a scoundrel, Alexander.”   
  
Hamilton forcefully turns him over, begins pressing sloppy kisses, tender nips and sucks down Laurens’ neck, traces his hands down Laurens’ side, slips wandering fingers under his shirt.   
  
“But I am _your_ scoundrel,” Hamilton replies softly between kisses. “And you be mine.”  
  
Despite any dark moods, Laurens cannot stop his smile as he pulls Hamilton up to meet his lips. 

***

Laurens still does not sleep, despite how Hamilton drapes himself tenderly over him, so that by the time morn finally arrives with cold light, he has slept not a wink, and the weighted mood upon his mind has only darkened further.   
  
His father’s accusations of false ambition swirl round his thoughts, accusing, leering, until Laurens is not quite sure whether the insecurities speak in his father’s cold tone, or his own.   
  
He finds it difficult to concentrate in the office, feels jittery, untethered; this made worse by Hamilton being at the Baron’s headquarters, so he has not even a knee pressed under the desk, a hand brushing his, to remind him of his ties to reality.   
  
He finds it tremendously hard to force his mind to translation, realises he has been pressing his nails into the palm of his left hand hard enough to draw small beads of blood.   
  
Eventually, Laurens thinks to seek out Morris as Hamilton so suggested, for anything should be better than the awful shrinking darkness, the pressure against his mind; receives leave from Harrison to do so, if he shall take dispatches with him to where Morris stays in camp.   
  
Though they have interacted little, Laurens knows Morris a man like to agree with him on most things, for it were Morris’ vote cast for Washington that ensured the vote of no confidence did not succeed; he who, in the end, were one of those that ensured Washington remains Commander-in-Chief.

  
Morris stays in one of the newly completed cabins, set up in the orderly fashion the Baron so instructed. There is a slush of boot stomped snow at the door.   
  
When Laurens knocks, one of the Committee’s aides answers, head disappearing to check whether Morris available, ushering Laurens in out of the piercing cold.   
  
“Ah, Mr. Laurens.” Morris is seated at a haphazardly stacked desk; his thick, dark eyebrows project curiousity. “I had wondered whether we might eventually speak.”  
  
Now he here, Laurens does not truly know what he means to say. He inwardly grimaces. “I have dispatches from our office, Sir.”  
  
Morris holds a hand out. “Good, good. I assume there be some mention of Greene’s intent to accept the post?”   
  
Laurens blinks, surprised. “Ah—I do not know, Sir. I were only given these; I did not read them.”  
  
Morris appears fairly surprised. “Do not all Washington’s aides work on such?”  
  
Laurens shrugs, hands the papers over. “At current moment, my work tends more to French translation.”  
  
“You work with the Baron, then.” Morris chuckles. “Now _that_ be an interesting man.” He opens the seal on one of the papers, eyes flicking over it, then glances back up. “Take a seat, Laurens. There be no need to stand in my company.”   
  
Laurens cautiously takes a seat, watches a moment as Morris makes some note. “I were wondering if I might discuss some issue with you, Sir?”   
  
Morris pauses, taps his quill against the desk. “I think I may have some idea of what you may ask. Might it be to do with the south, perchance?”   
  
Now, Laurens is truly surprised himself. “Indeed, Sir.”  
  
“And black emancipation.” Morris places his quill down. “You father has mentioned such in our correspondence. You would petition me to support your proposal in Congress, I presume?”   
  
And, well, Laurens has not thought so far as that, really, but perhaps—if he is to petition Washington and Congress on the merits of his plan, it would serve him well to first secure some congressional backing.   
  
“Aye, Sir.”  
  
Morris tuts. “I suspected you to be somewhat politically adept, given who your father is, but did not realise you quite so bold in your campaigning.”  
  
Laurens frowns. “I hope that does not mean you judge me ill, Sir.”  
  
“No.” Morris smiles slightly. “No, I do not. If anything, it should mean I think of you better.” Then he frowns. “And though I think your plan has great merit—given you know my abolitionist stance, I think it likely you supposed this the case—I do not believe it will be approved by Congress.”   
  
Laurens crosses his arms. “Not right away, perhaps, but—”   
  
Morris shakes his head. “Not at all. Though you and I see the absolute good in paving a way for slaves to earn their freedom, there be no incentive for those in the south to do so. They shall not give up what they see as their property so easily as that.”  
  
Laurens holds in a glare; his foot begins to jitter. “How can we say we fight for liberty, and yet in the same breath call other men slaves and property?”   
  
Morris sighs. “I agree with you, Laurens; it is a nefarious institution. I only mean to say that whilst I shall support any such plan if it ends up on the floor of Congress, I am doubtful it should get there at all.”  
  
“But if we advocate for it, think to secure further support—”   
  
Morris only shakes his head. “During this war? No. The southern states barely wish to fight for this union at all; you say you wish to free their slaves, and I think they shall withdraw their support for our cause completely.”  
  
Laurens slumps. Discussions with Morris were intended to pause the dark curtains muddying his thoughts; instead, the hopelessness and heaviness only grows worse.   
  
He realises he has forgot to eat since about two o’clock the previous day, but his stomach so accustomed to hunger in this place that it bothers him not.   
  
“What if we propose to pay them for it?”   
  
Morris picks up his quill again. “Then perhaps they should agree; but Congress is broke, Sir, and that situation unlikely to be rectified anytime soon.”   
  
He glances back down at the correspondence Laurens brought him. “I am sorry, Laurens, but I do not think it likely to be accepted. It may be a battle better fought after this war.” His eyes flick up again to the meet Laurens’. “Would you tell the General’s Military Secretary—I forget his name—”   
  
“Colonel Harrison,” Laurens supplies blankly.   
  
“Ah, yes, Harrison—Would you tell him I wish to discuss this issue of men who fall ill, and these proposed required certificates for them, with the General and Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton at their earliest convenience?”   
  
Laurens stands, but it as though his body responds automatically without the orders of his mind.   
  
“Aye,” he mutters. “Certainly, Sir.”  
  
He departs Morris’ cabin in even worse temper than when he arrived; his plan so easily dismissed by one of the only men who may support the morality of it, and he reduced to a mere messenger for Harrison and Hamilton.   
  
Back at headquarters, he says what Morris so required to Harrison, then finds Tilghman has finished what translations they were allocated this morn, and none more yet delivered. Harrison instead asks him to inform the General and Hamilton of Morris’ request, for Hamilton apparently now in discussion with Washington, not the Baron.   
  
Numbly, he sets off down the corridor with dispatch.   
  
Hamilton and the General pause in their speaking as he enters; clearly they discuss things he may not know.   
  
Ordinarily, this should not bother Laurens at all, but between the heavy darkness, the fuzzing numbness creeping across his mind, the remarks of Du Ponceau, his father, Morris—it all becomes too much.   
  
He rapidly farewells Washington and Hamilton, notes the terrifying blankness in his own voice, notices the concerned gaze Hamilton bestows upon him but cannot force any reassurance to his face or tone.   
  
He leaves headquarters without informing Harrison; wanders off through the camp without thought, a desperate need to _get out get out_ taking over his limbs.   
  
When his thudding mind suddenly catches up with his steps, he blinks, disorientated. He finds himself standing on the banks of the frozen Schuylkill River.   
  
It has been a long while since the darkness so great as to make him lose any sense of time or purpose, and he wonders why it makes itself known now, of all occasions.   
  
Laurens gazes out through the barren trees, stares blankly at the shifting ice. Behind him, the bustling noises of camp seem to fade out to nothingness, as though his hearing lost.   
  
There be a strange ringing in his ears as he stares blankly; he knows from experience this is exactly the place he ought not be when this mood settles upon him, alone and out from under the watchful gaze of others.   
  
He wonders dismally, almost as though he contemplates another and not himself, what it should feel like to be caught under that thick ice, freezing, separated from the world above, drowned by the world below.   
  
Laurens does not know how long he may have contemplated this bleak landscape, but it long enough that he almost feels disconnected from his freezing skin, cast adrift and separate from his own flesh.   
  
And then, footsteps break a brittle branch behind him, a soft voice calls:   
  
“Laurens?”   
  
A hand settles on his shoulder; he is snapped back under the cage of his skin, suddenly realises just how cold it truly is.   
  
He shivers.   
  
“Laurens?” asks Hamilton once more, for of course he should be the one to seek him out. “Jack? Are you—are you alright? Only, you seemed rather…distant, when you addressed us in the General’s office.”  
  
Laurens hums, takes a shuddering breath; he feels Hamilton’s hand grasp his shoulder tighter.  
  
He means to say: “I am fine; only tired.”   
  
But instead he says: “Do you ever think to contemplate non-existence?”  
  
There is a confused pause, and then Hamilton snorts.   
  
“I think we have established afore now that I have near died several times over; it would be poor of me to not have contemplated such.” He shifts round so that he stands in front of Laurens, blocking his view of the Schuylkill, fingers slipping from shoulder to grasp his hand. “Damn it, John, you feel near frozen!”   
  
Laurens ignores this, forces focus on Hamilton’s dancing eyes. “I do not mean to contemplate death from illness, nor injury, nor war; all soldiers have done such as that.”  
  
Hamilton grasps Laurens’ hand tighter. “No? Then what do you so speak of?”   
  
“Simply—” Laurens shrugs helplessly. It seems shameful to admit to such, but this is Alexander, his dear one. “Simply no longer existing.”  
  
Hamilton presses his lips together. “As though you suddenly were to disappear?”   
  
“Aye,” Laurens murmurs; though this be not it exactly. “Whether that be by your own hand or no.”  
  
Hamilton blinks; his gaze sharpens. “Your _own hand_?”  
  
“Aye.”   
  
“Hmm.” Hamilton’s eyes narrow dangerously upon Laurens. “You speak of the _willing_ sort of non-existence then, that which scripture should name a sin.”  
  
Despite dark moods, Laurens snorts, grimly amused.   
  
“You have never seemed much concerned with scripture before,” he comments dryly.   
  
Hamilton’s face only sharpens, gaze narrowing further, anger sparking. “No, indeed; but I know that you be often concerned with it, and so seek to understand this discordance.”   
  
Laurens frowns, at this. “Whilst it true I have often sought to follow such, you also know my temperament weak in doing so, else we should not be engaged in our affections.” He pauses. “And so, perhaps I sinfully disregard this also.”  
  
Disconcertingly, Hamilton’s face seems to crack open a little, naked fear and despair shining through.   
  
“Then I would ask that you reassert scripture here,” he says sternly. “For if you were to willfully seek this non-existence, I know not how I would restrain from also seeking such an end.”   
  
Laurens squeezes Hamilton’s hand, grasps his other so that both are held tight. “No,” he says forcefully. “You would not.”  
  
“No?” Hamilton’s tone begins to grow angry. “And you think to speak for my mind on this?”   
  
Laurens knows he ought to stop, let it go, for it clearly upsets Hamilton greatly, but his mind be stuck in such dismal mood still that he cannot contemplate Hamilton truly being so effected; indeed, any in the entire world caring so, if he were to cease breathing.   
  
He shrugs, keeps his tone deceptively light. “You would love some woman—one of those Schuylers, perhaps?—and marry well, have children, an illustrious career. You should not need one so broken as I for any of that.”  
  
Hamilton’s eyes convey such sorrow and heartbreak that Laurens would snatch these words back if he could, if they felt less true.   
  
“I may do such,” Hamilton glares, voice low and heated. “Or I may not, though I cannot contemplate giving my heart to a woman when you should monopolize it so—do you truly think so little of me, of my care? How many times must I assert _just_ _how much_ I should care for you?” Frustration seeps thickly through his tone.  
  
“You would manage,” Laurens replies sharply; he should hate himself for these feelings, but they plague him still. “As you are able to wish for a woman in that capacity, something I am so denied.”   
  
Hamilton presses his lips together, face tight, eyes hard and unforgiving.   
  
“Whether or not I should accomplish all that you speculate on, if you were to willfully die—let us not mince words, for I know this is what you speak of—then I should accomplish all such missing my heart, missing my soul, missing my very essence, for if you perished in such an act, those parts of me should be ripped away and stolen with you to the grave.”   
  
Laurens lets out a sharp, shaky breath. “Alexander—”   
  
“No.” Hamilton steps closer, lips near meeting Laurens’. “Stop. I know not what has brought this mood on, and I am sorry it seems to haunt you so, but you must _cease_ with this.”  
  
“Alexander—” Laurens tries again. “Dear boy—”   
  
Hamilton kisses him softly. “I shall say it, shall I? For it seems nothing less should convince you I shall not abandon you for some woman.”  
  
Laurens’ heart begins to beat fast. “No—that is—say what? _Say what_?”   
  
Hamilton pulls back, eyes meeting his searchingly, breath visible in the freezing air. “That which you continuously thwart me in saying.”  
  
Laurens shakes his head. “No, Alexander, you are not—you cannot be—”   
  
Hamilton places a hand over his mouth. “Hush. I will say it, Laurens, for what if I do not, and then I never have such a chance again? You would deny me that?”   
  
Laurens stares at him helplessly, Hamilton’s cold palm still covering his mouth insistently.   
  
Hamilton appears to take a deep breath. “John Laurens—”   
_  
No_ , Laurens wants to say, _no, please, no. You must not—you cannot—please—please—  
  
Stop_.   
_  
Stop!_  
  
But Hamilton, as relentless in this as he is in all other aspects of his life, does not stop.   
  
“John Laurens,” he says. “My Jack. I love you, you fool.”   
  
And Laurens—in a frenzied split second of _momentous_ idiocy—breaks away from Hamilton, and flees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorryyyyyy :( It had to happen, but I promise it’ll be okay!
> 
> I’ve played a bit fast and loose with history in terms of the letters between Henry and John Laurens on the black battalion plan. The correspondence I mention was actually *mostly* written mid-late January, but I already had a lot to cover in that month, so I’ve moved the dates back a bit ~creative license at it again~ 
> 
> Likewise, idk if Laurens would have spoken with Morris, but he did need Congressional backing/approval for his plan, and Morris was abolitionist, so it made for a convenient conversation in my plot. 
> 
> Never fear, there will be more Baron von Steuben & Du Ponceau coming up! And I *know* the Baron likely spoke French a bit better than I’ve made out here, but cheeky translation mix ups are fun!
> 
> And one last note: how Laurens experiences his depression/depressive episode in this is very much based on my own mental health struggles (writing from personal experience and all that) but yeah, obviously each person experiences these sorts of things differently :) 
> 
> Letters/excerpts from:   
> -“To George Washington from Major General Lafayette, 23 February 1778” https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/03-13-02-0552  
> -“Regulations for the Order and Discipline of the troops of the United States” by Baron Friedrich Wilhelm Ludolf Gerhard Augustin von Steuben  
> -“Correspondence between Hon. Henry Laurens and his son John, 1777-1780” https://www.jstor.org/stable/27575094
> 
> French translations:   
> -C’est bien: That is good  
> -Ça ne fait rien: It does not matter  
> \- Je suis reconnaissant que vous êtes ici!: I am thankful you are here!  
> \- Répétez, s'il vous plait: Please repeat   
> -Ce n’est pas mon Hamilton: He is not my Hamilton  
> -Je pense qu'il est: I think that he is  
> -J'insiste!: I insist!  
> \- Il m'a dit que vous et votre Hamilton faites une paire belle: He says/he told me you and your Hamilton make a handsome pair   
> -Bonne nuit: Goodnight


	14. The Sins of Another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, hope your week has been okay! :)
> 
> As soon as I started writing this chapter, I knew it was gonna be a lot to get through and oh boy did it not disappoint me, yikes. It was going to be much longer than it is, but I ended up splitting it in two :) 
> 
> I just wanted to say again, thanks for all your lovely support on this fic! <3
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_Winter Encampment  
Valley Forge  
March 4th – March 14th 1778_  
  
Two days. Two days in their _full_ entirety. Sunup to sundown. _Twice_.   
  
That be the length of time that passes where Laurens and Hamilton do not exchange a single word, bar what may be necessary in their work for Washington or the Baron.   
  
In these two days, the aides make their move to the new cabin behind Potts’ house, so that Mrs. Washington may have their bedroom for her sitting room, the garret for her servants.   
  
Laurens is…unhappily gladdened by this, for the last night he and Hamilton share the garret alone, Hamilton refuses to speak, or share the bed. So, their quarters being now common with all the other aides should be somewhat a relief.   
  
Laurens is paired with Meade— _again_ —for the aides decide they must swap bed fellows, Tilghman complaining of Meade’s cold feet one too many times for civility to continue reigning in their pairing.   
  
Hamilton is with Fitzgerald, who seems pleased, as Hamilton should be the man most likely to leave his bed fellow to an unshared bed when he stays awake working on some task or another.   
  
The cold, empty space between Laurens and Hamilton should be entirely Laurens’ fault; he has ruined all they have achieved, all trust shared, all such confidences, in one foolish, foolish motion. He is not sure how he might repair this rift, for he has truly wounded Hamilton in a manner worse than any other he has managed thus far.  
  
When Hamilton so declared his love for Laurens, aloud, irrefutably, open and trusting in a way Laurens does not believe he had yet witnessed before that moment, Laurens instead stole this trust, and thrust it back in the guise of a bloodied dagger.   
  
That is, he became an unscrupulous coward, and fled.   
  
In the moment, he thinks perhaps he panicked, for it is one thing to know he loves Hamilton, to _suspect_ Hamilton may feel the same, and another to hear those words spoken aloud, confirmed.   
  
He does not understand why, exactly, this should cause panic, but it made him feel trapped somehow, this affection between them suddenly concrete, and real, and solidified, and damning.   
  
Hamilton loves him, and yet Laurens has not ever been completely honest with him. Hamilton loves him, and yet Laurens knows Hamilton has plans, and dreams, and ambitions, and in none of those can Hamilton be permitted to exist as a man that loves another man.   
  
And yet, is it from a sense of self-sacrifice that Laurens does not wish Hamilton to love him, or a sense of selfishness?   
  
Laurens fears it the latter. He fears himself nothing more than a coward; has told himself time and time again that they must not begin these affections, but he could not stop, could not restrain himself, should have Hamilton sinfully in bed, over and over and over again.   
  
And now, as the worst of his sins, he has convinced such a man as Hamilton to love him, a man who _so rarely_ gifts any such friendship and trust, and then rebuked him for it, run away, left him standing foolish and heartbroken in the snow.  
  
Laurens hates himself, and this world, and certainly the idea of love, and thinks it just as well he shares a cabin with other men, else the pistol in the corner should wind up in his mouth.

  
On this particular morning—he knows not what day it be anymore, does not care, just knows that it now beginning three days since Hamilton so declared his love—Laurens is the last to wake, having barely quieted his mind to sleep at all. He dresses overly slowly; has no wish to enter headquarters and be told he has tasks for the Baron alongside Hamilton, which should be likely.  
  
When he finally opens the door to the aide-de-camp office, only Meade and Harrison are present in the room.   
  
He knows not where Fitzgerald may be, but figures that Hamilton and Tilghman have been assigned the Baron’s work this morn; it seems he has successfully avoided such after all.   
  
Harrison barely looks up when Laurens enters, so full of paper as his work place be.   
  
“Are you ill, Laurens? You have seemed rather out of sorts these last couple days; I should not like for any more to suffer from fever, lest further illness start to make its way through our ranks.”  
  
Laurens only shakes his head, presses his lips together. “No, Sir. I am quite well.”  
  
Meade huffs loudly, doubt about this assurance obvious.   
  
Laurens seats himself at a desk; shoots Meade a glare. “You wish to add something?”   
  
Meade raises both hands, as though in surrender. “Nay; nothing.”   
  
Laurens makes a sceptical face. “That seems unlikely; you should always have some comment to offer.”  
  
Meade crosses his arms, tuts. “If you are not ill—and you say you are not—then I must suspect you have quarrelled.”   
  
“I—” Laurens forces himself to remain calm, grips his quill tighter than required. “Why should you suspect such?”   
  
Meade only tilts his head. “I have observed that, should you be angered by someone, you tend towards…curtness.” He taps his fingers upon the desk. “And so it seems now. But which of us has caused the strife? I hope it not I.”   
  
Laurens contains a sigh; it seems he still cannot hide his moods from Meade. “No, Sir; you are not the cause.”  
  
“Ah.” Meade hums. “But you have quarrelled with someone; I am right. Your…father, perhaps?” His tone turns to cautiousness.   
  
Harrison’s eyes suddenly flick up. “Hamilton, I should think.”  
  
“Sir?” Laurens manages, dread suddenly clogging his throat like thickened wine. “Why—why should you think such as that?”   
  
Harrison smiles slightly. “He be also in an awful mood, and I know it not just that he argues with the General. That mood is his usual, this not.”   
  
“Ha.” Meade’s eyes glint with amusement. “You seem to be a regular solver of mysteries, eh, Old Secretary?”  
  
Harrison rolls his eyes. “Do not call me that, else we may start our own quarrel.”   
  
Meade waves a hand. “Aye, pardon, my apologies.” He glances at Laurens, lowers his voice. “It does suit him though, does it not?”   
  
“I can still hear you, Meade,” Harrison comments dryly, eyes fixed firmly back on his correspondence.   
  
Meade snorts. “Certainly, else I would not say it. There be no point to a jest if the man intended the target cannot hear such be delivered.”   
  
Laurens breathes in shakily, attempts to open some letter that is sealed rather too severely.  
  
“Well?” Meade prompts curiously. “Do you quarrel with Hamilton? Is Harrison correct?”  
  
Laurens places the letter back down, rests palms on the desk carefully. “Aye, but I am sure we shall solve it.”   
  
“I hope so,” Harrison remarks. “This office should work rather better when all manage as friends.”  
  
“What such terror did he commit this time?” Meade asks cheerfully. “Did he perpetrate some act of a tomcat where you might witness such?”   
  
Oh, truly, if it _had_ only been so; an act as that should have wounded Laurens dearly, but not caused him to hurt Hamilton so greatly in return.   
  
“Why do you assume he has done some such thing?” he finally scrounges up in reply, knee jittering up and down under the desk.   
  
Meade shrugs. “It should usually be that he has caused the discord in most disagreements, should it not?”   
  
Laurens finds strangely that the very air meant to give him life is choking him on his reply. “It were, in actuality, a wrong I committed against his person.”   
  
This admission leaves his mouth sounding hoarse, falls into the room tasting bitter.  
  
Meade’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “Surely not?”   
  
Laurens nods, glances away. He feels his eyes prickle; cannot allow the other two to witness such emotion at an apparently trivial quarrel. “It were; I fear even apologies may be in vain.” He takes a deep breath in, glances back at Meade.  
  
Harrison looks up once more, frowns. “I highly doubt that. In any case, an apology is usually the best place to start; you may as well go to it before you assume any such worse requirements.”  
  
“Aye,” murmurs Laurens, and this usually true, but where Laurens’ crime is concerned, apologies should seem woefully inadequate.

  
Near to noon, Tilghman returns to headquarters, seeming unusually subdued; he only hands Laurens some of the Baron’s papers to be translated, before settling moodily at Meade’s desk.   
  
Meade sighs theatrically. “Am I to be abandoned by even your wit, Tilghman? I alone cannot carry the burden of ensuring good cheer in this office.”  
  
Tilghman only snorts, sounding uncharacteristically ill-tempered and sharp. “Since you the true jester in this office, I should think it only fitting.”  
  
Laurens glances up from the lines of Du Ponceau’s words, as Meade raises his eyebrows.   
  
“I were only teasing, Sir, but now I _do_ wonder at your irritability.”  
  
Tilghman makes a face, shakes his head. “Hamilton,” is all he mutters.   
  
“Ah.” Meade’s eyes land upon Laurens. “It seems he and Laurens have had some disagreement.”  
  
Tilghman turns to Laurens. “Is that so?”  
  
Laurens frowns. “Aye. However, I do not think it any’s business but ours.” He glares pointedly at Meade.   
  
Meade shrugs apologetically; Tilghman makes a face.   
  
“That may be so, but if you could resolve your business, that should benefit us all.”  
  
“Oh?” Laurens snaps. “Why should that be?”   
  
“Laurens…” Tilghman sighs. “I do not mean to cause offense; it is only that Hamilton’s temperament this morn seems completely unbearable.”  
  
“In what manner?” asks Meade; he sounds still curious, but wary.   
  
Tilghman rolls his eyes. “He called me excruciatingly slow, cursed Du Ponceau’s tone several times, and generally behaves ill, I think. Even the Baron’s fondness for him appears wearing thin; the General sent us all out to take air, else I believe he may have struck Hamilton himself.”  
  
Laurens elects to ignore this, turns his gaze back to his work.   
  
Alas, with Meade in the room, this a ploy that does not succeed.   
  
“What in the damned world did you argue over for him to be quite _that_ ill-tempered?”   
  
At this, Laurens can take no more prodding. “I think I may require some air myself.” He marches stiffly from the office, ignoring Tilghman’s surprised mutters as he does so.   
  
Of course, once he outside the office, Laurens does not really know what he means to do. He could simply walk about camp, but with such comes the risk of crossing paths with the General, who may wonder what he does—or worse, Hamilton.   
  
He also does not feel like searching out the Baron and offering his services for the afternoon, as whilst Hamilton is unlikely to be found there after being sent out, it still possible.   
  
Instead, he simply walks the few feet to the aides’ shared cabin, intending to merely work on translation there, where the others cannot bother him with queries and assumptions.   
  
Being only sixteen by fourteen feet, the cabin is not overly large, hence the requirement to share; the remainder of the small space taken up by the fireplace down one end; various barrels and trunks dotting the walls and between the beds.  
  
Laurens stamps his boots, opens the door quietly.   
  
His luck, as ever, holds true to its misfortune, for Hamilton is seated on his bed, writing furiously, boots removed, feet tucked up.   
  
“Damn,” murmurs Laurens, thinks to leave, but—  
  
“Laurens.” Hamilton’s tone is as cold as he has ever heard.   
  
“Hamilton.” He replies, removes his hat, fiddles with it nervously.   
  
Hamilton swings his feet off the bed, reaches for his boots. “I shall go, shall I?”   
  
“There is no need—” Laurens begins; Hamilton cuts him off harshly.   
  
“I have tasks to be about anyhow.”  
  
“Tasks such as insubordination?” Laurens knows that provoking be not the right technique to take here, but his own anger is surging. If Hamilton would only let him explain, would just shoulder his pride for _one damn moment_ —  
  
Hamilton has pulled both boots on, stands up. “Aye, insubordination; perhaps then I can be rid of this army and those in it.”  
  
Laurens blinks. “Hamilton—”   
  
Hamilton goes to shove past; without thinking, Laurens raises his arm, bars Hamilton from the doorway.   
  
“John Laurens, if you do not move, I shall have no issue striking—”   
  
“I am sorry!” Laurens yells suddenly, shocked by his own volume. “I am sorry, Alexander, alright? I am sorry!”   
  
Hamilton steps back abruptly, his hands curling into fists, eyes spitting flames that truly do feel as though they burn Laurens’ skin, sear his heart.   
  
“You are sorry.” His voice is flat, stubborn. “You need not apologise for not loving me; I cannot hope to control—”   
  
“God!” cries Laurens, words and sound bursting forth desperately. “That is not it at all, Alexander!”   
  
Hamilton pauses mid-sentence, blinks. His eyes do not cease their anger, but his hands unfurl slightly.   
  
“And how should I know that? You seemed to be begging for some assurance of my care, and then when I confessed so, you fled.”  
  
“Christ,” Laurens mutters; Hamilton’s eyes blow wide. Laurens is sure none have ever heard him blaspheme so overtly before. “I did not—I were not begging assurance of your care; I know I have it, as you have mine. I were in a dark mood, as I did explain—”   
  
“Oh?” Hamilton crosses his arms. “And I can read your thoughts so, is that it?”   
  
“No.” Laurens sighs, realises just how tight he grips his hat. “That were not—that were not what I meant. I simply—I panicked.”  
  
“You panicked.” Hamilton frowns. “My, what a ringing endorsement of my love, that it should provoke panic such as that.”  
  
“Hamilton…” Laurens pinches his nose. “That were not what I meant either.”  
  
“Then do tell me, John,” Hamilton begins sharply. “Tell me what you did mean, for I am at a complete loss to understand you.”  
  
Laurens bites the inside of his cheek, wishes he had some sharp object to squeeze between his fingers.   
  
“To hear you say that you—you _love_ me—that is, I am sure, the happiest I have ever felt, and it almost certainly does not seem quite real. But—”   
  
“But?” Hamilton still seems rather unimpressed, which Laurens supposes to be fair; he has hurt him very badly.   
  
“Alexander…” Laurens feels himself slump; his voice go very soft. That panic, that sense of being trapped, of being solidified and damned, he knows where this should stem from, truly. “Any that end up loving me seem to fare exceedingly…badly.”  
  
Hamilton is silent a very long moment.   
  
Then:   
  
“Let me see if I understand you correctly. You panicked, as you believe that by loving you, fate shall deal me an as yet undetermined, ugly hand sometime hence.”  
  
Laurens frowns, stares at the floor. “Aye, but you make it sound foolish when it is only the truth. And also—”   
  
“Also?”   
  
“I do not—I do not deserve your love.”  
  
Hamilton breathes out slowly, regards Laurens carefully. “And why should that be?”   
_  
I am married, I am an adulterer, I have a daughter, I am a god-cursed sodomite_.   
  
These are the things Laurens should say; these are the things he cannot say, will not say, must not say, and it is selfish, so selfish, but if Hamilton should hate him for them—there may be nothing left in this life to hold on to but a worthy end.   
  
Instead, Laurens clenches his fists, fingernails digging. “I am—I am…I am further cursed than you, my dear boy. You, at least, can desire a woman, whereas I—I am damned entirely.”  
  
“ _Jack_.” Hamilton begins to sound frustrated, rather than angered. “We have gone over such as that time and time again, and I do not see how that should make you anymore unworthy than I—”   
  
“I should not like to be the one that breaks all you have built here, and loving me, that seems rather opposite to succeeding in your ambitions, and—”   
  
Hamilton is glaring again. “You only break what I have built here now, with these words. Damn it, John, but you know I do not love easily, do not bestow affection easily, and yet you have allowed me—”  
  
“I should not like to be your ruin!”   
  
Again, Laurens’ voice louder than he means; his words ring in the snow dampened silence of the cabin, bounce off the too close walls.   
  
Hamilton’s glare slides off his face; tension seems to drain out his body. “John,” he starts, takes a step closer; Laurens attempts to take a step back. “You think denying love should prevent that?”   
  
Laurens blinks. “If you did not love me—”   
  
“But the problem,” Hamilton murmurs softly, steps forward again. “Is that I do.”  
  
Laurens feels a great black hole open beneath him. “Alexander—”   
  
Hamilton takes one last step forward, reaches up so that his hands rest against Laurens’ cravat. “There be no use telling me that I should not love you, Jack, because I do. I _do_ love you.”  
  
“No,” begins Laurens, despair welling up. “Hamilton—”   
  
Hamilton leans up, kisses Laurens lightly on the cheek. “I am a grown man, Laurens, as you. I think if any man out there creates my ruin, it shall likely be only I, through my own actions.” He regards Laurens softly, sadly, in a manner Laurens thinks were designed to break his heart. “You cannot control these things so, Jack, and you must stop trying. Things must be _lived_ , not strategized. Cease thinking in excuses and ask yourself what you may truly feel.”   
  
“Alexander—” Laurens starts. “Surely you must know that I—”   
  
Hamilton cuts him off with a slow, gentle, open-mouthed kiss. “I think I know. But do not say it now, or if may feel like you only wish to match what I have so said. Think on such properly, think what you _truly_ want, else—”   
  
“Else?” Laurens queries shakily.   
  
Hamilton smiles sadly. “Else I think we must cease with this after all. I cannot continue with something where my love should always be entwined with fear so. Do you understand me, Jack?”   
  
Laurens stares, wide eyed.   
  
Oh, he understands. Hamilton offers one final ultimatum, one last plea for Laurens to give up his insecurities, accept this love they share, with all its sins and fears and potential to end in terrible fiery ruin, or else sever all affections entirely but those of friendship.   
  
Laurens’ heart and his recklessness say _jump, jump you fool_ ; his mind says _this man’s future is so important, and you cannot be the one to destroy it_.   
  
In all other things, recklessness should win, but he cannot play such games with Hamilton’s potential.  
  
Hamilton hums sadly. “Think on it,” he murmurs, lips brushing Laurens’ teasingly. “For I do love you, Jack, but I will not force you to accept such love, nor love me in return.”   
  
“Hamilton, I already know that I—”   
  
“Think on it.” Hamilton kisses him one last time, then escapes out the door as Laurens stands in shock.   
  
As he hears Hamilton’s crunching footsteps retreat, Laurens picks up a canteen lying on a barrel beside him, flings it as hard as he can at the opposite wall, lets out an almighty yell, before collapsing against the door, head in his hands.   
  
Faced with losing Hamilton, or losing all his standing in this life, he knows what his answer will be, and he hates that one must perhaps one day be sacrificed for the other.

***

Over a week later, Laurens finds himself reporting to the frosty drilling ground for the eighth consecutive morn in a row. What with sharing cabins, and being kept constantly busy by the Baron and the General, Laurens and Hamilton have had barely a moment alone, though not through purposeful avoidance, this time—or at least, Laurens hopes Hamilton does not purposefully avoid him any longer.  
  
In any case, Hamilton is also kept busy in private consultation with Washington, Harrison and the Committee over the matter of prisoners of war. He does not speak to Laurens alone on the subject, but he does speak to the other aides of it, when they all in their cabin at night.   
  
It appears that Washington and Howe have been communicating since January about exchanging prisoners; this the secret work Hamilton has apparently been conducting.   
  
The exchange were meant to take place the tenth of March, a couple days past, but difficulties with Congress’ new resolutions have forced its postponement to the end of the month (luckily, Howe seems not too irritated by this).   
  
Laurens is secretly glad for such, as he should like to speak properly and privately with Hamilton again before he must depart camp, in case something untoward should befall him, as it so often seems to.   
  
A loud German yell startles Laurens; shaking himself from these thoughts, he lifts his gaze to watch the lines of drilling soldiers closely, attempts to halt a shiver as a particularly sharp breeze manages to slither under his coat.   
  
At least now, with Greene Quartermaster at last, and Mifflin facing charges of corruption, most men should own some breeches that are less holes, more fabric, even if there are still rips to be seen.   
  
Several soldiers manage a difficult bayonet manoeuvre they have not before; Laurens notes such down, as today his task to watch and mark progress, so that Washington may have some idea of when the Baron may demonstrate his success to the Congressional Committee.   
  
Hamilton’s task this morn, on the other hand, is to walk alongside the spirited Baron von Steuben, he and Du Ponceau attempting to translate what they can to the men.   
  
The Baron erupts with a particularly loud _goddamn!_ followed by a rush of several worse French swears, and some likely even cruder German ones. His exuberance when pleased, and his theatricality when angered, should truly be a sight to behold.  
  
The various lines of drilling men grin widely. They strangely seem to enjoy his boisterous temper, and work hard to please him; men who fail in certain things being good-naturedly fined quarts of brandy.   
  
Laurens stifles his own grin; over the last couple weeks, he finds himself enjoying the Baron’s unusual company, feels he can no longer hold too much of a grudge against Hamilton and the fondness he seems to harbour towards the Baron—particularly if he wants Hamilton to forgive his own recent transgressions.   
  
So it seems that, despite his flaws, von Steuben becomes a figure it be oddly hard to dislike.   
  
Laurens is suddenly surprised by a short laugh beside him; a Captain he recognises not has joined him.   
  
In much the same way Tallmadge so surprised Laurens when first they met, this man evokes a similar feeling of appreciation.   
_  
Pretty_.   
  
This time, however, there be no undue panic attached to the thought, no frenzied lists of native plants to be recited, merely an observation of objective truth. This pleases Laurens rather absurdly; perhaps he makes some progress against his own self-hatred in this manner.   
  
“I do not think I have ever heard German employed quite that harshly,” the Captain says. He seems young, around Laurens’ own age, but like them all, he appears tired and drawn.   
  
Laurens raises his eyebrows, feels astonished. “You speak German?”   
  
Dear God, if they had only known of this man’s existence some time ago!  
  
The man shrugs. “A little; very little, truly. My French is far better.”   
  
Laurens shakes his head. “I wish you had made yourself known sooner, Sir.”   
  
The man grimaces. “I would have done, had I known it an issue; but I have so offered my services now.”   
  
He holds out a hand to shake. “Captain Benjamin Walker.”   
  
Laurens clasps his hand in return. “John Laurens.”   
  
“Ah!” says Walker. “You are John Laurens!”   
  
Laurens sighs, expects the usual invoking of his father’s name, and is instead surprised by Walker explaining:   
  
“Du Ponceau mentioned that you are a man of exceptional character.”  
  
That astonishes Laurens even further, for though the animosity between he and Du Ponceau also fades into something akin to friendship (if not _quite_ there yet) this a more positive statement from him than he should think to expect.   
  
“Du Ponceau really said such?”   
  
“ _Oui_ ,” Walker confirms. “After I offered my services to Washington yesterday morn, I were taken to meet the Baron and he.” He hums. “I am to begin attempting to assist here. The General should be glad to have the sole use of his aides once more, I think.”   
  
Laurens huffs, slightly amused; Washington does seem to begrudge the Baron’s hold over Hamilton somewhat. “I am sure he should.”   
  
Walker’s assessing gaze upon Laurens’ face has turned a little strange. “If I am liked, the Baron says he may offer me an aide-de-camp position.”   
  
Laurens notes something quick upon his travel desk afore answering. “That should prove an honour, I think.”   
  
Walker hums. “Du Ponceau did mention the Baron had thought to offer you such?”   
  
“Pardon?” Laurens startles, at this; forgets what else he were about to write. “He never said so to me.”   
  
And that true; neither the Baron nor Du Ponceau has ever mentioned such as that.   
  
“No,” Walker replies, seeming to choose his words carefully. “It seems, in the end, he did not think you would accept such an offer.”  
  
“I am content to remain working under General Washington,” Laurens confirms cautiously. He is not sure where this conversation may be headed, but equally, he is not sure he should like it.  
  
Walker glances to the side, as though to check they alone. He coughs. “He seemed to imply he did not ask you, not for that reason, but because a place in his office should offer other...things, and he thinks you should refuse them, whereas I may be amenable.”  
  
Laurens immediately goes cold, feels his breath freeze in his chest. “I am not sure I know what you mean, Sir.”  
  
Walker’s eyes seem to rove the drilling field, land upon a particular figure; Laurens realises he watches Hamilton, and goes colder still.  
  
“He thinks you already have what you may desire,” Walker replies, rather cryptically, but with his gaze still firmly upon Hamilton, Laurens thinks he may know clear what should be implied.   
  
“And you?” he asks coldly. “Would you be amenable, if such an offer should arise?”   
  
Damnation, but _why_ must Laurens somehow continue to become entwined with men who may also share his sins, his dubious tendencies?   
  
It seems exceedingly dangerous to congregate so, for if one man be found out, others may become guilty through their obvious associations.   
  
He does not desire acquaintance with any more sinners as he—why must these men like the Baron and Du Ponceau push for this so? Do they suppose he may take Walker under his wing, help him understand the fears and clandestine ways of sodomites?  
  
Good God, but he does not _want_ this friendship!  
  
Walker’s eyes shift to cautiously flick over Laurens’ face. “Perhaps. I shall see if my translation skills are up to the task, first.”  
  
“Hmm.”   
  
Laurens elects to ignore Walker for the remainder of the time they spend on the drilling field, keeps himself occupied by continually taking notes, even where they not necessary.   
  
He makes sure his gaze does not drift to Hamilton once.

  
As soon as drills appear to be finished for the day, Laurens swiftly excuses himself from Walker’s company, marches back in the direction of headquarters, blowing on his cold hands, desk tucked under his arm.   
  
He must have a stern discussion with Du Ponceau about his assumptions post-haste, for he does not appreciate his name being given to others alongside such possible illegal acts.   
  
What if Walker were to—  
  
It does not bear thinking about.   
  
And also, that Walker seemingly knows enough that he thinks to look to Hamilton in order to garner some reaction from Laurens—  
  
Unacceptable.   
  
Laurens’ anger—volatile at the best of times, and this is not that—expands, so that his cheeks flush, and his hands shake where he grasps the door knob.   
  
So caught up in his determination to find, confront, and possibly threaten, Du Ponceau, Laurens does not look where he is going, and finds himself running straight into Mrs. Washington as she attempts to exit the house.   
  
“Oh!” she laughs, as both their faces exhibit surprised shock.   
  
Laurens jumps back wildly, watches in dismay as his ink pot falls and spills in the snow.   
  
“My apologies, ma’am,” he winces, eyeing the slowly darkening puddle with embarrassment.   
  
Mrs. Washington only smiles, gaze soft. “I also apologise, Lieutenant Colonel,” she says. “I were not watching my steps either.”  
  
Laurens blinks, lifts gaze from the frozen ink. “With respect, ma’am, I am not a Lieutenant Colonel,” he murmurs. “I have no such commission.”   
  
“Hmm.” Mrs. Washington only stoops to pick up the ink pot, passes it over to Laurens, who holds out his hand in surprise. “You are an aide-de-camp to my husband, though, are you not?”  
  
“Aye.”   
  
“Then I think you equal to a Lieutenant Colonel, in any case.” Her eyes twinkle with some mirth that makes her appear far younger than her years. “But I may drop such titles if you would address me as only Martha.”   
  
Laurens’ eyes widen, thoughts twisting guiltily over and around another woman named Martha; he also cannot imagine the General’s reaction to him calling his wife by her Christian name. “I ought not to; it would not seem proper.”  
  
Mrs. Washington smiles wider. “Perhaps not. It seems I must address you as Lieutenant Colonel, then.”   
  
Laurens nods; she does not appear as though her mind can be changed. He goes to bid her good day and enter headquarters, but she holds up a hand.   
  
“Our near collision were fortuitous, as I have a question I would put to you.”  
  
“To me?” Laurens stares. “Are you sure you do not require another of the aides?”   
  
She shakes her head. “No, for they are none of them the son of Henry Laurens.”  
  
Ah.  
  
Laurens hides a grimace. “I cannot pretend to understand my father in many things, but I shall try.”  
  
Mrs. Washington nods, steps further away from the open doorway, closes it carefully. Laurens wonders why she does not prefer to speak inside.   
  
“I know my husband will not ask, as he fears to overstep his bounds, and is also held back by pride. However, if I might—” She stops. “I trust my query may stay between us?”  
  
“Certainly,” Laurens responds, mind whirling. There be far too much occurring all at once for him to think properly; he forces himself to put all thoughts of Du Ponceau, Walker and Hamilton aside.   
  
“Would you perhaps write your father? See if you may ascertain exactly why Congress objects so ardently to these prisoner exchanges my husband proposes, rather than the half excuses they offer us thus far?”   
  
Laurens subdues a sigh, shifts his mind to army problems, supply issues, _his father_. “I…can try, ma’am. But my father—ah, he may not share such with me, particularly if I am asking on my own behalf, and not—”   
  
“Not on behalf of my husband,” Mrs. Washington confirms. She smiles sadly. “He should not like you or I going over his head as that.”  
  
Laurens hums, glances to make sure none else approach. “I feel I must add that I know my father personally and ardently supports your husband’s position, despite the conflicting opinions of Congress.”  
  
Mrs. Washington laughs softly. “I am sure that be in no small way thanks to you.”  
  
Laurens is not sure how he might reply to that, but he is further surprised by how much of these intricate politics the General’s wife understands. Perhaps better than the General himself, truly, who has likely never overly contemplated Laurens’ part in Henry’s support.  
  
Laurens clears his throat. “I shall try to see what I may find out. I should probably—”   
  
Before he may take his leave, Mrs. Washington interrupts him again. “Thank you kindly, Lieutenant Colonel. And if I might impose on your generosity with one more query—?"  
  
“Aye?” One does not refuse the Lady Washington.   
  
“I do not suppose you know the current location of my husband?”   
  
“Ah,” Laurens frowns. “He is not in his office?”   
  
“No, not at present.”  
  
Laurens thinks on it. “I believe there were some mention of him needing to meet with Generals Knox and Weedon?”   
  
Mrs. Washington sighs. “I suppose I ought try there.” She smiles, but the edges of it seem tinted with slight irritation. “Are you married, Mr. Laurens?”   
  
Laurens panics, for he cannot lie to Mrs. Washington, but he also does not wish to have such a topic bandied about amongst the ladies or officers, in case Hamilton should hear—  
  
He needn’t have worried, as it seems, apparently, a rhetorical question.   
  
“For at times,” Mrs. Washington is saying. “It can be a great trial.”   
  
Laurens does not respond, for he can hardly _agree_ to the General being somewhat of a trial, even if this rather true.   
  
Instead, he says: “But I assume worth it at most times?”   
  
The expression that crosses Mrs. Washington’s face is a loving mix of exasperation and tenderness.   
  
“Oh, yes. Most certainly.” Her eyes flick to Laurens’. “Loving someone is the best of life’s trials.”  
  
“Indeed,” Laurens murmurs softly, mind turning to only one such person.   
  
Mrs. Washington’s gaze shifts to curiousity. “I think you may have such a someone, for I recognise that expression; I have seen it often enough in the mirror.”   
  
“I—” Laurens flounders. “It should seem difficult.”  
  
Mrs. Washington pulls her cloak a little tighter. “Ah, but love that is hard fought for should seem the best love of all, I think.” She turns away. “For now, however, I must seek out my own love, and hope he has not angered too many of his Generals this morn.”  
  
Laurens huffs a small laugh. “Let us hope not, ma’am.”   
  
With a nod of thanks, and a smile, Mrs. Washington turns away, skirt billowing in the cold wind.  
  
Laurens watches her trudge out into the melting snow, and wonders on the strangeness of receiving accidental advice on illicit love from the General’s own wife.   
  
A strange part of him thinks she would not mind, but of course, this foolish. She must assume he speaks of some woman.   
  
Shaking his head at his idiocy, regretting he must now write further letters to his father, Laurens wearily enters headquarters, stomping his boots.   
  
He hears Meade yell some such ill-thought jest as he closes the door, and sighs. Though he is fond of all these aides he works with, sharing company in the same house with the same men, for months at a time, does not do wonders for one’s sanity.

***

Two days later, Laurens stumbles tiredly into headquarters for the morning. He were kept up late in discussions with the Baron, Du Ponceau, Walker, Hamilton and Tilghman, as Washington’s aides prepare to hand over translation assistance to Walker.   
  
Such an awkward and uncomfortable gathering he is not sure he has ever experienced afore in his entire life, for the Baron and Du Ponceau should make all sorts of insinuations that cause Walker to flush, Hamilton to wince or jest depending, and Tilghman to appear so utterly confused that he later asks Laurens whether his French be not so good as he thought.   
  
Laurens does not have the heart to tell Tilghman it is not his French ability that the issue stems from; he likely hears all correct, but does not understand the hidden undertone.   
  
In any case, Laurens settles at a desk in headquarters beside Meade with a grimace and a yawn.   
  
Fitzgerald, seated across the office, raises his eyebrows. “Did Meade’s cold feet interfere with your sleep, Sir?”   
  
“Fiend!” cries Meade. “I would have you know, Laurens has made no mention of such a thing bothering him, and if it were—”   
  
“Oh, hush,” Fitzgerald laughs. “I see you do not like to have what jests are usually yours turned upon you.”  
  
Meade’s mouth opens and closes. Then he snorts. “And I see your aim be to provoke, and so shall not gift you such satisfaction by replying.”  
  
Tilghman makes a groaning noise of frustration, to which Meade lights up mischievously, clearly seeing his own opening for jokes.   
  
“And what ails you, Tilghman? Too much ale?”   
  
Harrison sweeps into the room with copies of the day’s General Orders. “Meade, I find myself disappointed in you; that were not even particularly clever wordplay.”   
  
“ _Tais-toi!_ ” Tilghman hisses rudely. “I think I must now breathe and dream in French, and so I curse you in French _aussi_ , Meade.”  
  
Meade huffs out a startled laugh. “Ah, I think here we discover the root of Laurens’ ills also; a certain Baron and his secretary, perhaps?”   
  
“Aye.” Hamilton, this time.  
  
Laurens looks up, startled. So quiet and still is Hamilton at his desk, Laurens did not even realise him there, and not about elsewhere.   
  
“However,” continues Hamilton. “That should be almost the last of it, I think; Walker should assist mostly now.”  
  
“Hmm.” Tilghman sighs, taps his quill against the desk. “The Baron does appear to like Walker very much.”  
  
“Do you know what he apparently said of him?” Fitzgerald adds. “On first meeting? ‘If I had seen an angel from Heaven I should not have more rejoiced’.”   
  
“Well!” exclaims Tilghman. “I think I should feel rather underappreciated by the Baron’s office, now.”  
  
Laurens watches as Hamilton presses his lips together, seems to attempt to stifle some humour.   
  
He clears his throat, inserts: “Indeed,” before Hamilton may make some inappropriate remark.   
  
“I should think it must seem wonderful to find another who speaks one’s language, if even a little,” Harrison points out. “Walker must seem a welcome addition in this manner.”  
  
“Aye, I suppose that so,” Meade allows.   
  
All hear as the door to headquarters appears to open and close. Fitzgerald, seated closest the office door, sticks his head out a little, if only to check for the General.   
  
“Speak of the devil,” he murmurs.   
  
Laurens goes to question, but his query soon answered by Walker’s head appearing round the door.   
  
“Hamilton,” Walker begins. “The Baron thinks he may have left some personal document in the translations you were given? He requires it for his meeting with the French officers this morn.”   
  
Hamilton curses, begins to shift through his mountains of paperwork, as Walker stands uncomfortably in the doorway.   
  
Laurens avoids his gaze.  
  
Against the backdrop of Hamilton’s mutterings, Laurens reads down the list of General Orders Harrison deposited on his desk.   
  
Meade appears to be doing the same, but ahead of Laurens, for he stops and curses, where Laurens has read nothing yet that should warrant such a reaction.   
  
“Meade?” he asks softly.   
  
Meade tilts the paper towards him. “This shall be a sorry business, I think.”   
  
Laurens flicks his eyes to where Meade points, reads:   
  
— _At a General Court Martial whereof Coll Tupper was President_ —  
  
before being interrupted by Harrison speaking.   
  
“Is this the Court Martial you mention, Meade?”   
  
“Aye,” Meade nods. “I were saying it shall be a sorry business.”   
  
“What should be?” asks Walker from the doorway.   
  
Harrison sighs. “A week or so ago, an Ensign Maxwell were accused of slandering one Lieutenant Enslin’s name with false accusations, though he were acquitted by Colonel Burr—”   
  
“Colonel Aaron Burr?” interjects Hamilton, sounding startled.   
  
“Aye, that is he,” Harrison nods. “You know him?”  
  
Hamilton makes a face. “Of a sort.”  
  
Laurens thinks he shall ask him of this Colonel Burr later.  
  
“Well,” continues Harrison. “Maxwell were acquitted, and now it seems these accusations he made not so false after all.” He grimaces. “The unfortunate Lieutenant Enslin is to be—” and here, he reads directly from the orders, it seems. “‘Drummed out of camp tomorrow morning by all the drummers and fifers in the army, never to return.’”   
  
“God.” Meade groans. “That shall be exceedingly unpleasant.”  
  
“But what crime is he found guilty of?” queries Walker.   
  
Laurens thinks that rather an important point; flicks his gaze to Hamilton—  
  
Hamilton has gone chalk white, eyes glued to the General Orders.   
  
Laurens feels his stomach flip, lurch, sink to his toes; his heart begins to speed up irrationally.   
  
Why should Hamilton appear so concerned—?  
  
He almost cannot bear to look, and it appears he does not need to, for Harrison frowns deeply.   
  
“He has—that is—” He clears his throat, and to see one so composed as Harrison flustered…should be truly alarming. “He and another solider, John Monhort, they—”   
  
Tilghman is frowning, searching for his own General Orders under a growing paper pile. “Harrison, spit it out forthwith; I cannot take this dark suspense!”   
  
Harrison flushes, glares at the paper, as though it has so perpetrated the crime. “They attempted to commit sodomy,” he says in a rush, as though he wants the awful words not upon his tongue any longer than need be.   
  
And oh—  
 _  
Oh_.   
  
That be why Hamilton—  
  
For, of course, they—  
  
Another has been caught and charged, lucky to not hang, and they—  
  
They—  
  
Here the concrete evidence of what should happen to _them_ if they—  
  
Oh, God.   
_  
God_.   
  
Laurens realises there a strange high pitched ringing in his ears; he feels as though the others’ speech struggles through water, or perhaps thickened blood, and there be that odd creaking sound of a noose entreating upon his senses, and—  
 _  
Damnation_ , but—Walker!  
  
Walker is staring straight ahead, eyes unseeing, fingers clenched so tight around his hat they appear white. He blinks rapidly, seems to jerk forward as though he might faint, twitches oddly, all colour drained from his face.   
_  
God_ , but he most new to such ideas as this, and new to what possible consequences, and such newness, it may give itself away!  
  
Walker seems to try to speak, makes an odd choking noise instead. “I think—” he manages.   
  
“Walker?” questions Fitzgerald. “Be you alright?”   
  
“It is indeed an abhorrent crime,” Harrison says cautiously. “The General says it one to be detested, certainly, and I suppose the idea of men committing such must come as a shock—”   
  
And, _dear God_ , does it pain Laurens something dreadful to hear Harrison make such judgments of them, makes the danger and terror of this all the more real, all the more heartbreaking.   
  
If they are found out also, there shall be no mercy amongst their friends, it seems.   
  
But Walker!  
  
“I think I might—”   
  
With as little as that, Walker turns on his heels, and _damn_ , he cannot be so obvious about his distress, he must not, for any might wonder at it, and the danger in such as that should be awfully clear.  
  
Laurens feels Hamilton’s terrified gaze upon him, and whilst he may not have known so clearly as Laurens what Walker’s inclinations might be, he must now, and he also likely fears that Walker may reveal himself to another in his absolute shock.  
  
Laurens stands before he even thinks. “I think I ought to go after him.”   
  
Harrison blinks, appears startled at the abruptness of it all. “Aye, yes, I think—that seems a good idea. He appears somewhat shaken.”  
  
“I imagine knowing of such actions occurring must seem an awful revelation,” Meade adds, and there is a very strange blankness to his tone when he says such, but Laurens has not the time nor the presence of mind to contemplate it.   
  
“Indeed,” he manages to reply. “I shall be back soon, I hope.”  
  
Harrison nods; the rest of the aides turn back to their work, seeming rather subdued still, but not at all suspicious, thank the Lord.   
  
Hamilton seems to be trying to convey something with his eyes, but Laurens cannot quite read it through the heavy concern and fear. He only nods, tries to convey _say nothing, for we must be above reproach_.   
  
Hamilton bites his lip, nods sharply, turns gaze to his work, and Laurens escapes out the office.

  
He catches Walker easily, as he has not gone far, stumbling through muddied, melting snow with all the awareness of a drunk, legs twitching in a manner that suggests his knees may give out, a skittishness like that of an unbroken horse to his movements.   
  
“Walker,” hisses Laurens as he approaches. “Stop.”   
  
Walker turns to him, eyes wide. He reaches out a hand. “Laurens—”   
  
“Hush.” Laurens glances around rapidly. “Over there.” He gestures at a wooded area to the left of the house, where none may observe them so well.   
  
Walker manages to stumble towards the trees, Laurens unwillingly offering a shoulder in assistance.   
  
“Where were you thinking you might go in this state?” he demands. He regrets the harshness of his tone, but someone must impart sense into this ridiculous situation.   
  
Walker blinks, stands a little firmer. “The Baron?”   
  
Laurens snorts. “Aye, that a fine idea; did you not say he were in consultation with some French officers at present?”   
  
“Oh.” Walker slumps. The youth he shares with Laurens suddenly shines clearer; he appears rather small, rather vulnerable. “Yes, of course.”  
  
Laurens sighs; he wishes he had left such as this to Hamilton, for he much more confident in himself and his sinful inclinations, and thus better placed to assist other’s with theirs. “You must compose yourself before you go anywhere, I think.”  
  
Walker stares. “Compose myself—! You may be used to such clandestine behaviour and threatening consequences, but I am not, Sir!”   
  
Laurens glares. “I do not know of what you speak, but I do know you must not draw any further attention to yourself or the Baron’s office in conjunction with the matter of Lieutenant Enslin. Is that clear?”   
  
Walker frowns in return, crosses his arms. “Oh, damn you, Sir. As if you and Hamilton do not know of what I speak, else why should you care how I might behave on this?”  
  
Laurens clenches his hands. He could ardently deny his and Hamilton’s affections until he red in the face, but with Du Ponceau’s unwelcome input and the Baron’s insinuations, such denial with Walker seems useless now anyhow.   
  
“That, that is why we do not—None here have any idea of any of this. Not me, not Hamilton, not you, nor any else. Do you _understand_?”  
  
Walker seems about to say more, when an odd look crosses his face. “Ah, I think—” He clears his throat. “I understand.”  
  
Laurens slumps. “Good,” he murmurs. “Good. Well. I should return before any think to query overly on my following you.”  
  
“Yes.” Walker tilts his head. “I think I might—I might see if I may be allowed to speak with the accused Lieutenant.”   
  
Laurens cannot believe what he so hears. “Did I not just tell you to distance yourself from such?”   
  
Walker nods stiffly, glances away. “Aye. But I—it seems wrong to abandon one of us so.”  
  
Laurens closes his eyes a moment, wills his frustration and fear to remain contained. “He is not one of _us_ , we are not anything, remember? He has committed some crime, and been caught. That is all.”  
  
“Aye, and a crime we both—”   
  
“Good God, do not say it!” Laurens feels anger rising in his tone, cannot help the sharp clip to his words. “Christ, man, would you see yourself drummed out also? Leave it be.”  
  
Walker only shakes his head. His words are soft, hesitant. “I should just like to know—was it worth it?”  
  
Laurens frowns. “Considering his current predicament, I should think not.”  
  
Walker grasps Laurens’ forearm, and he wishes to God he could twist away without seeming cruel.   
  
“Then why…at all?”  
  
At this, Laurens stills, for Walker, as incautious and desperate as he may be, is right.   
  
Each time he thinks of he and Hamilton, he imagines how this might end, whether it be in shame, or at the end of a rope, broken bodies swinging in the breeze.   
  
But if that ultimately what should occur, why do it? Why continue at all?   
  
If such an end inevitable, why begin in the first place?   
  
Of course, Laurens knows the answer to this query, has known it for far longer than he admits. It is exactly the reason Mrs. Washington so gave: to love be the best of trials. Also the worst, likely, but does that not make such worth it too?   
  
Laurens does not know Enslin, or Monhort, nor how they may have regarded one another; he also has no wish to know them, particularly now.   
  
But he knows why they must court such danger; knows why he should.   
  
He loves Hamilton, and he knows Hamilton loves him, and yet he poisons this love with such constant musings on how it might end.   
  
He realises he knows how he shall answer Hamilton’s ultimatum; has always known.  
  
“Do not go to Lieutenant Enslin,” he finally says to Walker. “There be enough whisperings of the Baron, and after your alarm in the office, it shall be all too easy for an accusation to find you.”  
  
Walker’s countenance appears quite desperate, his fingers digging painfully into Laurens’ coat so that he thinks they may cause bruises.   
  
“But I must know,” he whispers. “I must. I must ask.”  
  
Laurens glances away, cannot meet Walker’s eye. “I cannot speak for Enslin, but I can speak for myself, and I would say that love should always be worth it.”  
  
He flicks gaze back to Walker warily; the other man’s eyes have blown wide. “So you think—a man truly may love another man?”   
_  
God_ , but they are lucky none seem nearby.   
  
“Aye,” Laurens whispers. “And now, you must forget everything that has been said here. Fix your coat, report to the Baron’s office, and say nothing more on the subject.”  
  
Walker nods, removes his hand from Laurens’ suffering arm. “Aye,” he mutters. “Yes. I—thank you.”  
  
Laurens grimaces. “Thank me only by never mentioning anything of this sort again.”  
  
Walker makes a face, but Laurens will not rescind these words. He protects Hamilton over any of these men, and if they shall go down, they will not take him too.

  
The mood in the office appears rather disquieted and subdued for the remainder of the day. When Laurens returns, Tilghman asks if Walker were alright, and Laurens only responds that he were shocked to hear of such a thing occurring, particularly between a Lieutenant and his inferior.   
  
All seem to accept that reasoning, and the last word spoken on the subject belongs to Fitzgerald, who bemoans having to arise even earlier for a drumming out, a miserable business in the best weather, least of all in melting snow.   
  
Laurens feels restless, jittery, stretched thin; he needs to shout, or scream, throw something, _charge_ , and yet he must concentrate on orders, and regulations, and translations. His mind flits from one subject to the next, finds some odd solace in Enslin being drummed out rather than hung; perhaps the General might show him the same mercy if he caught?  
  
Or perhaps not, for the scandal of two of Washington’s own aides may be too great to bear without harsher punishment.   
  
Finally, as dark begins to entreat upon them, and Harrison fetches candles, he can sit no more, his fingers tapping the desk so quick, and his leg bouncing uncontrollably so that Meade elbows him, hard.   
  
“Good God, Laurens, go take a walk or some such thing. I can barely write from where your knee bumps the desk, and I think I may be about to break your fingers from sheer irritancy.”  
  
“My apologies,” Laurens mutters, standing. He needs _out_. Now.   
  
Across the office, he notices Hamilton’s concerned gaze upon him. He just shakes his head, escapes out the door.   
  
Outside, the wind be biting, which is both unpleasant and necessary, as this physical discomfit gives Laurens something he may concentrate on outside of his frenzied mind.   
  
He stands out the front of the aides’ cabin, but does not truly wish to go inside, where his thoughts should once again be given free reign without distraction.   
  
Instead, he walks round the back of the cabin, where the wind is slightly lessened, and stares out over the camp. Fires and bobbing torches dot the landscape, flickering in and out of reality as men pass tents, huts, other men.   
  
Some slurred song carries on the breeze, and Laurens closes his eyes, tries sincerely to puzzle out the lyrics, tease out the notes.   
  
He begins to shiver, but elects to ignore such. That is, until he hears:   
  
“John?”   
  
Laurens opens his eyes, but does not otherwise move. He glances towards Hamilton, whose eyes glimmer in the falling dark.   
  
“Aye?”   
  
Hamilton steps closer, boots sloshing in the mud. “What are you doing?”  
  
Laurens sighs. “I needed—”   
  
Hamilton is close enough now that he takes Laurens’ hand, winds their chilled fingers together.   
  
“You needed?”  
  
Laurens shakes his head. There are no words to adequately articulate it. “I needed to—get out.”  
  
Hamilton hums. “Aye.”   
  
For a moment, they both lean against the cabin wall, sides touching.   
  
“It is difficult to be reminded how our closest friends may regard us,” Hamilton finally murmurs.   
  
“Oh, aye,” Laurens breathes in return. “Would they jeer in disgust if we were drummed out also?”   
  
“Hmm.” Hamilton’s head falls to rest on Laurens’ shoulder. “Likely. But we would not be caught.”  
  
Laurens snorts. “Lafayette knows.”  
  
Hamilton huffs a laugh against Laurens’ neck. “Lafayette is an uncommon man. He did not catch you; he knew already, and does not judge.”  
  
They stand in silence again for a while, Laurens tilting his head to kiss Hamilton’s hair.   
  
“Alexander—”   
  
Something in his tone must alert Hamilton, who lifts his head, stands up straighter, voice sharpening.   
  
“Aye?”  
  
Laurens turns so that their lips nearly touch. He takes a deep breath, as though he a drowning man, and the air passing from Hamilton’s lips his only chance at life. These words, these words he has struggled to give breath, to reconcile with, to allow himself a chance to feel, he must say—  
  
“I love you.”   
  
There is a beat of silence as Hamilton stares, breathes in sharp. Then his mouth begins to curve upwards. “You are not merely saying that, I hope, as I—”   
  
Laurens huffs, closes the gap with a very gentle, chaste kiss. “No, you fool.” He pauses. “I thought on it, as you said, and I—”   
  
“Yes?” Hamilton whispers, small smile truly beginning to form.  
  
Laurens kisses him again. “There were not much to think on. And today—”   
  
“Lieutenant Enslin?”   
  
“Aye. That—”   
  
“What of it?”   
  
Laurens sighs. “Walker, he asked why such a thing may be worth it when all could end as that.”  
  
Hamilton watches him carefully. “And how did you so answer?”   
  
“I—” Laurens squeezes Hamilton’s hand. “I told him love should always be worth its trials.”  
  
“Jack,” murmurs Hamilton, less sound, more breath. “Did you truly?”   
  
“Aye, of course, my dear boy. I thought on it, and I—if I am to die one day, as we all are, whether that in two years, or twenty, I should rather live and love and perish, than live longer and regret.”  
  
Hamilton’s face creases; he kisses Laurens softly, opens his mouth, invites deeper, mumbles into the kiss:  
  
“I love you, Jack.”  
  
Laurens draws back slightly, kisses Hamilton’s cheek, his jaw, his neck; hears Hamilton gasp.   
  
“As I love you, Alexander.”  
  
Hamilton holds his hand so tight he fears his fingers may snap, but he cares not. He reaches up with his free hand, places it under Hamilton’s jaw, teases patterns into his skin as he kisses him deeply on the mouth once more.   
  
He feels Hamilton’s other hand wind into his hair, tug roughly, so that Laurens’ head tilts back, neck thrown into sharp relief.   
  
Hamilton releases their hands, Laurens’ hair, fiddles with his cravat until he has access, begins to suck at Laurens’ pulse point, until Laurens writhes, knows it shall bruise, slides his hands under Hamilton’s coat—  
  
“Damnation, but that we do not have our privacy anymore,” Hamilton murmurs into his skin.   
  
Laurens goes to reply, only moans breathily instead, when Hamilton presses him back against the cabin wall, slides a thigh between his legs, _presses_ —  
  
“Alexander,” he gasps. “As you so said, we have not the privacy for—”   
  
A hand is thrust between Laurens’ legs also, squeezes lightly.   
  
He hisses, groans—  
  
“Alexander!”   
  
Hamilton only chuckles, eyes sparking with mischief and lust. “If it were not so cold, I should have you here, on the ground, where any could—”   
  
“Hamilton? Laurens?”   
  
“Good fucking God!” Hamilton hisses, leaps back, nearly stumbles over into the snow.  
  
Laurens leans back against the cabin wall, struggles to fix his cravat, fingers stumbling in the chill, willing desperately that the cold might steal away any signs of desire as quick as possible!   
  
At least, this time, it is _not_ Meade; there be some relief, in that.  
  
Instead, they hear again: “Laurens? Hamilton? Where in God’s name are you?”   
  
“Harrison,” mutters Hamilton, reaching up to smooth Laurens’ hair where he had not realised it out of place. “We are here, Sir!”   
  
Harrison rounds the side of the cabin, candle in hand. He brings it up to stare at them, eyebrows raised. “Am I to hope you have finally resolved whatever disagreement so plagued you this past week?”   
  
Laurens blinks. “Sir?”   
  
Harrison waves the candle at Hamilton. “He said he were intending to search you out and so resolve the issue.”  
  
“Ah.” Laurens presses his lips together; prays they are not conspicuously swollen. “Yes. He has—we are—the _issue_ —it be quite resolved.”  
  
“I see.” Harrison frowns, glances between them; an element of befuddlement remains clear on his face. “Well. That should be a relief to Meade and Tilghman, I am sure.”  
  
“Meade and Tilghman ought heed that caring overly killed the cat,” Hamilton mutters dryly.   
  
“Hmm.” Harrison agrees, eyes narrowed. “Whilst I do not understand why your resolution of matters must take place in the snow, I am also cheered by the notion that the ill-temper between you may soon depart.”  
  
“Indeed,” Laurens agrees, desperately resists making sure his cravat not tied too improperly, tries to forget the sound of Harrison calling such affection as he and Hamilton share _abhorrent, detested_.   
  
Harrison clears his throat. “Anyhow, I search you out, for the General has returned to Headquarters; he requests our presence on the matter of the drumming out, I think.”  
  
Laurens frowns. God, that the last subject he wishes to discuss this eve. “We had best return at haste, then.”  
  
“Aye.” Harrison turns on his heel, strides swiftly back towards Potts’ House.  
  
“Well,” grimaces Hamilton, fingers brushing Laurens’ briefly. “That should effectively stifle any of my hopes of having you this eve.”  
  
Laurens snorts with embarrassed amusement. “You hold your tongue, Sir. We had best see what the General should wish to discuss on this.”   
  
Hamilton only smirks, winks. “Aye, and perhaps then I may have you after.”   
  
He begins to walk backwards through the sludgy snow, grin wide in the dark.   
  
Laurens snorts, moves to follow. “I think not, Sir.”  
  
And they must jest now, they must tease now, they must take pleasure in the company of one another, solace in the love that they both share, have so declared aloud, now, spoken and ratified and promised.   
  
For tomorrow, they must watch another damned, drummed out for such behaviour as they also engage in, and yet make no movement, show no sign, no sympathy, else follow this man to the same doom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading! :)
> 
> Some historical notes: All the info about where the aides slept at Valley Forge is pretty murky (to say the least). There’s some evidence of cabins having been built that the aides *may* have slept in after Mrs. Washington joined camp and (possibly) took over their bedroom as a sitting room. However, they probably would have all shared one together, unfortunately for my Lams shipping heart.
> 
> There is *very little* we know about Frederick Enslin—or John Monhort. This means it’s really hard to tell anything about their relationship (or even if that’s what it was). So…I spun their story how I wanted, but whether you think that’s how it went down is up to you! :)
> 
> Basically, it’s all a big ~we don’t know for sure~ so I did what I wanted bc creative license!
> 
> Also, the words “with abhorrence & detestation of such infamous crimes” (referring to Enslin & sodomy) do appear in the General Orders for March 14th, said by Washington, and god it hurts my heart to think of Hamilton or Laurens reading that and wondering what awful things their General might think of them if he knew about their affections :’(
> 
> And, as much as I love this chapter, I’m SO EXCITED about next week’s! ;)
> 
> Excerpts/info from:   
> -“General Orders, 3 March 1778” https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/03-14-02-0029  
> -“General Orders, 14 March 1778” https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/03-14-02-0138   
> -“Male-Male Intimacy in Early America” by William Benemann (quote about Walker being an angel is from here)
> 
> French translation:   
> -Tais-toi: Shut up


	15. A Reckoning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Yes, we’re still in winter quarters (which is hilarious to me because it was 37 C today where I live (98.6 F)). 
> 
> I apologise if we’re moving through March/April very slowly, there are a lot of things I wanted to cover before they leave Valley Forge; the pace will pick up again soon!
> 
> Also! Unlike my rudimentary French, I don’t speak German *at all*, so the German in this is probably Very Bad. There’s not much of it, but sorry in advance!
> 
> Enjoy ;)

_Winter Encampment  
Valley Forge  
March 15th – March 16th 1778_

The fifteenth of March becomes another of those days that are etched into Laurens’ memory, stored and categorised alongside other such dates of misfortune and dismay.   
  
Prior to this day, Laurens had not borne witness to a drumming out, and he hopes he never shall again. It is every part as awful as he so expected, and made all the worse for him continually imagining Hamilton in such a position, paraded up and down the lines of soldiers, coat turned inside out, face drawn and condemned.   
  
Laurens wonders whether, in such a situation as that, he may actually prefer death, for at least then he may choose the manner of his ending, and not be followed for life by the societal shame of such a conviction.   
  
All Washington’s aides-de-camp are required at the drumming out, Gibbs also standing solemnly among their ranks. Any others of Enslin’s regiment, and indeed any other able bodied man in the camp, also attend, lining the way for Enslin’s expulsion over the banks of the Schuylkill River.   
  
He is marched past the ranks of hissing and jeering men, past some calls of _molly_ , _pansy_ , _sodomite,_ other such insults that Laurens hears not, or perhaps deliberately ignores.  
  
Laurens feels strange, as though he both inside his body, and also not, a part of him stuck with Enslin, frozen, drummed up and down past rows of disgusted faces, imagining Harrison or Meade hissing crude abuses, turning their backs; the other part of him secure in watching, in pretence, in knowing he commits the same crime, but is set apart for his not being caught.  
  
For truly, that be all that separates he and Lieutenant Enslin: the Lieutenant had the terrible misfortune to be apprehended in the act.   
  
Whether or not Laurens and Hamilton believe themselves to love one another, that should have no meaning if they are also condemned.   
  
There be none who should cry _no_ if they are convicted, none who should protest on the basis of them loving one another.   
  
They be sinful sodomites, and that is all any would think if they were accused in this same manner.   
  
When Lieutenant Enslin is marched past Washington’s staff, he walks stiff, jaw clenched, shoulders set and rigid, eyes staring straight ahead, never flicking to the General, in the manner where one seems not truly gazing at any such thing.   
  
His coat, inside out, seems to display several holes; his boots as worn as the lines of exhaustion etched clear on his face. His expression is tense, his hair pulled taut, and yet he seems simultaneously, curiously absent, as though his mind rebels and imagines itself anywhere but here.   
  
Laurens does his best not to look too close, lest Enslin’s face be replaced with Hamilton’s in his imaginings.   
  
Beside him, Laurens feels Hamilton breathe in sharp, swallow. His fingers twitch against the back of Laurens’ hand, so Laurens moves his hand away.   
  
Cruel, perhaps, but this the one place above all where none such affection should be attempted.   
  
On Laurens’ other side, Meade mutters low, cutting under the volume of the drums and fifes. “This more awful than I should have imagined.”   
  
Laurens only hums in agreement; he has none such words to offer up with the nearness of Enslin’s transgressions to his own.   
  
Meade sighs. “I do not mean he does not deserve such; do not misunderstand me. But I think his being found out and court martialled should feel shameful enough.”  
  
“Aye,” Laurens whispers; can only imagine how Meade may react to know the man beside him—the _friend_ beside him—engages in the exact same sins.   
  
“What of Monhort?” murmurs Tilghman, positioned slightly behind Meade.   
  
Meade only shrugs lightly. “He is to be court martialled also, I think, though as Enslin has pled that it he who initiated their liaison, I should think Monhort’s punishment to be lesser.”  
  
Hamilton bumps his shoulder into Laurens’; Laurens risks at glance at his face.   
  
It is frighteningly blank, eyes hard, unblinking, mouth tight, as Enslin be marched beyond the lines of men, over the bridge that links their encampment with the river’s far bank.   
  
“Hamilton…” Laurens whispers, voice as quiet as he may attempt and still be heard.   
  
Hamilton only shakes his head, closes his eyes briefly as the drummers cease.   
  
“Say nothing,” he finally says.   
  
Laurens says nothing.

  
The walk back towards headquarters feels rather subdued. Laurens finds himself trailing behind the others, the sounds of the fifes and drums swirling through his mind, until the noise appears to be swelling around him, settling on his skin as though it composed of heavy, humid air.   
  
He trudges through the melting snow, each footstep feeling as though it heavier than the last, breath hanging wispily in the cold morning air. Those jeers which men shouted at Enslin grow louder against the confines of his mind, until he feels that the shame of such words is instead being imparted upon his soul, rather than that of the departed Lieutenant.   
  
“Laurens?”   
  
Hamilton appears to have slowed, so that they may walk side by side, several paces behind the others, the quieted chattering of their fellow aides swallowed by the crisp wind.   
  
“Are you lost to your mind again? Be you alright?”  
  
Laurens sighs, lightly taps his chilled fingers against Hamilton’s. “I am not lost; I am unfortunately present. But what of you, my dear?” he asks softly in return.  
  
“Hmm.” Hamilton gazes out over the camp, clumps of men returning from the drumming out to chase some warmth in cabins, or at sorry fires. “I am undoubtedly better than Lieutenant Enslin should be, in any case.”  
  
Laurens huffs, casts a glance to ensure the rest of the aides truly do walk ahead of them. “I thank God for that, though he may not accept my thanks.”  
  
Hamilton snorts; his mouth lifts in the tiniest of smiles, which Laurens should count as some sort of small victory on such a dismal morn. “I wonder what shall become of him.”  
  
“Enslin?   
  
“Aye.”   
  
Laurens sighs. “I suppose he may change his name, make some other life for himself.”  
  
Hamilton hums. “He cannot ever rise too high in society, else his conviction be discovered, aired publicly.”  
  
Laurens looks away wearily, shrugs. “Aye.”   
  
And that what scares him above all else; if they found out, given away, and somehow survive such, Hamilton’s ambitions for a life of consequence should be destroyed.   
  
Unless, of course, alike to Enslin, Laurens should accept blame, imply that he forces Hamilton into such; then, Hamilton may yet be spared, may yet succeed.   
  
And Laurens, well, he may redeem himself with some such battle sacrifice.   
  
They be nearly back at headquarters when Laurens catches a hold of that thought properly, wrangles it into submission, into words.   
  
“Hamilton,” he murmurs softly, uneasily aware that the space between they and the other aides be shrinking. “What do you think the General should do, if we were caught in the way of Enslin and Monhort?”   
  
For a careful moment, Hamilton says nothing in reply, only frowns slightly, flicks his eyes warily to meet Laurens’.   
  
Then:   
  
“I do not like to think of it.”  
  
Laurens shrugs. “I do not either, but if the worst were to happen—”   
  
“John, there is no need—”   
  
Laurens elbows Hamilton slightly. “Hush. There is every need. Did not this morn demonstrate such?”  
  
“They were careless,” Hamilton interjects. “We are practised at this, now, we are careful—”   
  
“If the worst were to happen,” Laurens insists over Hamilton’s protestations. “Blame should fall to me.”  
  
Hamilton abruptly stops walking, tosses a warning glance at him. “Laurens…”  
  
Laurens looks away, cannot meet his concerned eye. “I…may eventually recover somewhat, for the value of my name, but you…”  
  
“I have no such name,” Hamilton agrees bitterly, shoulders tensing. “Aye, that true. And yet still, I would not allow you that. It shall be that both pay the price for such love, or neither.”  
  
“Hamilton—”   
  
But the argument can be taken no further, for they find themselves nearly at the door to Potts’ House, the other aides now too close for such conversation as this to be continued.

  
The usual mountains of paper work greet the aides as they troop into the office, removing hats and cloaks, stomping boots free of mud.   
  
Laurens should hate the sorting of such correspondence usually, but this morn, he clings to the routine of it with no small part of desperation. He settles beside Hamilton at a desk, Meade swapping to sit with Harrison when he sees his seat already occupied.   
  
Perhaps the two of them deciding to sit together be not the best of ideas this morn, but Laurens feels that he requires Hamilton’s presence beside him, and by settling there, it should appear Hamilton feels likewise.   
  
Laurens runs his hands over his face, turns his attention to translating yet more of von Steuben’s drilling manual; briefly wonders how Walker may be faring also, before deciding to cast such worries aside.   
  
Walker should have his own comfort, he is sure.   
  
All toil in silence for a fair while, broken only by first Harrison fetching coffee, and then Meade scrounging up some bread from the kitchen, with the aid of Hamilton’s flirtatious skills.   
  
Laurens knows Hamilton performs such mostly in jest, and to secure food, but knowing be not the same as accepting, and such should only dampen the dismal mood of the day further.   
  
As should be quite usual, it is Meade that eventually breaks the glum silence, though he does not do so with jokes, as would be his usual method.   
  
Meade first clears his throat, so that all look up, questioning.   
  
“Aye?” Harrison asks, voice sounding rather hoarse. He gulps some coffee. “What new jest have you suddenly discovered for us, Sir?”   
  
Meade’s face twists oddly. “It is a query that plagues me, not a jest.”  
  
“Ha.” Tilghman’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “How unusual. Are you feeling quite yourself?”   
  
Meade only rolls his eyes, then frowns. “I am well, I only—” He cuts himself off.   
  
Even Fitzgerald, who toils on some supply report for Greene, and so has had very little time for conversation these past few days, puts down his quill. “Now I truly worry; Meade, lost for words!”   
  
Meade glares down at the table. “Perhaps I shall say nothing at all.”  
  
“Nay, Meade!” Hamilton jumps in, rests a hidden hand on Laurens’ thigh. “Please! You cannot leave us all so curious as to your query.”  
  
Meade sighs, steadfastly keeps eyes on his desk. “I only—It concerns Lieutenant Enslin.”  
  
An uneasy silence descends on the office.   
  
“Aye?” Harrison’s invitation to speak sounds uncertain, now. “What of him?”   
  
Meade’s gaze still remains cast down. “I had heard—Well. It seems foolish to air such, but—”   
  
“Meade?” Tilghman regards Meade in a confused manner.  
  
Meade seems to shake himself aware, looks up. “It is only that I heard some of the men in his regiment—his ex-regiment, pardon—say that, when he were caught, Enslin insisted that he only did such for love, and I—” He grimaces. “I suppose I wonder how one may be so bold as to claim their sodomy as love.”  
 _  
God_.   
  
Laurens wishes that the office floor should open up and swallow him. He feels Hamilton tense beside him, remove his hand slowly from his thigh.   
  
The space left behind feels cold and bereft.  
  
Harrison clears his throat, seems to purposely glance back down at his work. “I think such hardly matters now, as Enslin has gone from us.”  
  
Meade presses his lips together, sighs. “Aye, that true. It is just that I had never considered—well. As you say, it matters not.”  
  
Tilghman is frowning; seemingly, his curiousity has been piqued. “I would agree, as Enslin gone, but considering that sodomy a crime legislated against, he can hardly have been the only man to ever attempt such.”  
 _  
Dear Lord_.   
  
Laurens glances sideways; Hamilton’s jaw is clenched, fingers white knuckled around his quill.   
  
Despite the danger of it, despite the recklessness, despite all such as that, Laurens very slowly taps Hamilton’s thigh.   
  
Hamilton seems to take a short breath, as though this touch so gives him permission.   
  
“I think,” Harrison says tersely. “That this not a proper conversation to be had within this office.”  
  
Fitzgerald hums, also frowns. “I see what Tilghman supposes, however, for who is to say that Enslin and Monhort the only sodomites in this army?”  
  
“Quite,” Meade agrees, voice also seeming brusque. “But that not, exactly, what I were debating—”   
  
“No.” Tilghman taps his quill against his desk. “You were asking of love; perhaps Enslin should believe such, even if it not possible by God’s law?”  
  
And, what damnable words these be; that Laurens should be forced to sit in this office, listen to men he would call friends debate the very existence of his tainted soul, and yet be able to say nothing, make no defence, except to _agree_ to such awful pronouncements, pronouncements that he himself be not entirely sure are false.   
  
Hamilton seems to snap from his rigid daydream, puts quill decisively to paper again. “In any case,” he says, pausing the current conversation with a convincingly light tone. “As Harrison so said, Enslin is gone; this issue no longer one that requires any such debate.”  
  
“Aye.” Harrison appears overly relieved. “My thoughts exactly. We have enough of our own work to be about without inventing worse problems.”  
  
“Ha!” Meade’s temperament seems to be recovering. “Have we suddenly replaced Reed in this office?”  
  
Harrison makes an entirely unimpressed face. “You, Sir, must have run quite dry of jests, if you must pluck such low hanging fruit as that.”  
  
Meade scoffs. “Sometimes even I must strike a low blow.” He laughs slightly. “And my wit still suffers from the events of the morn.”  
  
As he says this word, _events_ , his eyes flick to Laurens’.   
  
This should mean nothing, as Meade always one to ensure he includes all in his conversations by way of meeting eyes; but there be something strange, something weighted, to his gaze, and Laurens’ feels a shiver come upon him, a coldness, a sinking feeling.   
  
Why does Meade ask these things?   
  
Be it truly about Enslin?  
  
Laurens should very much like to remove both Hamilton and himself from any further scrutiny this day, but to do so at this moment, though every nerve should strain to leave this room, such would seem odd at best, suspicious at worst.   
  
And so he must only sit, work through Du Ponceau’s difficult hand, feel Hamilton’s stiff presence beside him, and do nothing, say _nothing_.   
  
He has never been much good at doing nothing, saying nothing, and this should be no exception.

  
As the day wears on, Laurens begins to feel trapped once more, glued to his chair with false determination, his mind and limbs desperate to rise, to escape, his only outlet to wildly jiggle his foot under the table, until Hamilton kicks him very lightly in protest.   
  
Such is this feeling that when the General suddenly appears in their office, asking if any may accompany him to a meeting with General Weedon for minute taking, Laurens immediately volunteers, despite how boredom inducing Weedon may usually be.   
  
Hamilton sends him a questioning frown as he makes to leave the office, which Washington must interpret as Hamilton seeming bitter he does not also go.   
  
“I would not worry, Hamilton; though Baron von Steuben now has Walker to assist, he has asked that you attend his quarters this afternoon.”  
  
“Sir,” Hamilton nods. “Of course. I did not mean to imply—”   
  
Washington only huffs a laugh; the glance he sends Hamilton is fond, and Laurens can almost sense the simmering resentment shifting under Hamilton’s skin at such an affectionate look. He shakes his head very slightly, pointedly, and Hamilton says nothing but to narrow his eyes.   
  
“I shall attend the Baron, then, Sir.”   
  
“Indeed.” Washington strides out the door. “Come, Laurens; the sooner we meet with Weedon, the sooner the meeting be done.”  
  
Even under the bizarreness of the day, to see the General in such good spirits after all they have endured these past months should seem immensely pleasing.

  
The meeting with General Weedon is, as Laurens feared, rather uninteresting, and also, continues for far longer than he may have hoped.   
  
Still, it proves a sufficient distraction from his mind lingering on Enslin’s drumming out, and Meade’s strange, probing questions.   
  
The General remains remarkedly even tempered, despite how tedious the meeting grows to be, and it seems near incredible to Laurens that he were not at all affected negatively by the events of the morn, by then again, why should he be?   
  
He need not fear that it may one day be his neck threatened by similar charges.   
  
Wearily, Laurens packs his papers into his travel desk, realises he has still not writ his father of any recent news, nor Lafayette to enquire whether Congress has approved his wish to return to Valley Forge.   
  
Aside from feeling defeated by the heaviness of his own mind, he has done very little of late, it seems, except hurt Hamilton, worry on Walker and fear a demise akin to Enslin’s.   
  
Some useful aide-de-camp he makes; perhaps Hamilton were right when he first disparaged Laurens’ abilities upon arrival all those months ago.

  
Laurens’ thoughts seem turned to any and all such miserable notions as he makes his slow return to headquarters, the distraction of minute taking removed; the General leaving to locate Greene, their new Quartermaster, to discuss some such issue of supply.   
  
He cannot stop himself remembering the rigid set to Enslin’s shoulders, the stiffness of his face, as drums thumped and men jeered.   
  
Yet, he cannot even claim Enslin’s punishment unjust, for he could so easily have been hung.   
  
As Laurens approaches Potts’ house, he instead makes a detour towards the aides’ cabin; does not quite feel as though he can face the crowded office again, where men may judge his dour mood in any manner of ways.   
  
He has no sooner sat on the bed he shares with Meade, boots removed, feet up, travel desk ready to resume what translation he has not yet completed, when the door creaks open.   
  
Hamilton enters, cursing under his breath; clearly, he has not noticed Laurens present.   
  
“Alexander?” Laurens queries, eyebrows raised. “What unfortunate soul has had the poor luck to irritate you so?”   
  
“Huh?” Hamilton’s head shoots up; he freezes, one hand still on the door. “Oh, John. Apologies, I were—I were quite distracted.”  
  
Laurens snorts, determines to put away his ill-temper and unease for at least this minute; their private moments being few and far between with such shared accommodations.   
  
“I can see that.” He smiles softly. “What has so distracted you?”  
  
Hamilton sighs, closes the door over, deposits himself on the end of the bed Laurens’ occupies. He stretches his legs out, lays his still-shoed feet across Laurens’ knees.   
  
Laurens huffs, unimpressed. “You shall paint my breeches with mud.”  
  
Hamilton only hums, laughs, closes his eyes. “Tell me that you should mind, and I shall remove them.”  
  
Laurens cannot bring himself to say such, craving Hamilton’s touch as he does, on a day where they have been at pains to remain apart, and he so recently finding the courage to speak of how he should truly feel.   
  
“I thought not.” Even with eyes still closed, Hamilton manages to appear smug.   
  
Laurens making a show of shoving at his feet. “I were intending to work, Sir.”  
  
“So work.” Hamilton leans back against the wall, conjures some travel desk from under his coat. “I shall also.”  
  
“You have not the inconvenience of booted feet upon your lap.”  
  
Hamilton laughs lightly through his nose, puffs air. “I shall fix such as that.”  
  
He withdraws his feet, which Laurens feels the loss of ridiculously keenly; however, Hamilton only removes his boots, throws them rather untidily to the floor, places his now stockinged feet back upon Laurens lap.   
  
Laurens raises his eyebrows. “I think you have solved only half the problem.”  
  
“I think you do not mind.”   
  
“So presumptuous, Sir!”   
  
Hamilton grins widely. “Am I wrong?”  
  
Laurens rolls his eyes; he cannot say that, for it not true. “No.”  
  
“As I so thought.” Hamilton dips quill to ink, begins some work.   
  
Laurens shakes his head ruefully and attempts his own, desk perched unsteadily over Hamilton’s ankles.  
  
After some time as this, Laurens thinks his eyes may permanently cross if he forced to stare one second longer at Du Ponceau’s untidy hand.   
  
“What do you work on?”   
  
Hamilton appears not to hear.   
  
“Alexander?”   
  
Still no recognition of him having spoken.   
  
“My dear boy?”   
  
Hamilton’s head shoots up. “Aye?”   
  
Laurens cannot stop a soft smile. “I only ask what you work on.”  
  
“Ah.” Hamilton grimaces. “An essay.”  
  
“An essay?”   
  
“On finances.”  
  
“On finances?”   
  
Hamilton makes a face. “Have you become some echo of me? Yes, on finances.”  
  
Laurens feels much perplexed. “Be that not Gibbs’ task?”   
  
Hamilton shakes his head. “Not—not finances of the army, Jack. Finances of Congress, of how we may run our nation’s banking should we win our independence.”  
  
Laurens stares; somehow, he still continuously astonished by his love’s strange brilliance. “You—you already think so far ahead as that?”   
  
Hamilton smiles oddly. “You think me overly ambitious? You know what mark I mean to have on this new nation.”  
  
“Aye.” Laurens moves his desk, lays a hand on Hamilton’s calf. “I know. But you still manage to surprise me with the scope of your ambitions.”  
  
“You think them too much?”  
  
“For me?” Laurens sighs. “Certainly. For you? Never.”  
  
Hamilton huffs. “You constantly underestimate yourself, I think, which should anger me greatly.”  
  
Laurens only shrugs. “I have proved a disappointment in too many things, for too many people. I only suppose realistically.”  
  
“You shrink what you may accomplish with such thoughts.” Hamilton’s tone has turned decisive. “You must not give up on your black plan, you know, no matter what your father may think.”  
  
Laurens bites the inside of his cheek. The black plan, his father—he cannot think overly on such still, for it brings remembrance of numbness, and coldness, and fear, and emptiness.   
  
“Yes. Well.” He takes up his desk again, determined to resume the French work.   
  
It appears Hamilton should have some other idea, for he does not return to his work, but places the travel desk upon the floor; Laurens can physically feel the weight of his gaze.   
  
Resolutely, Laurens translates some phrase about bayonet use, keenly aware Hamilton wriggles closer, so his knees now across Laurens, rather than his ankles.   
  
“You shall upset the ink,” he reprimands sternly.   
  
Hamilton only chuckles, shifts close enough that his forehead drops to lean upon Laurens’ shoulder.   
  
“Laurens…”  
  
Laurens attempts to dislodge Hamilton’s head, but he is stubborn. “I have _work_ to be about, Hamilton.”  
  
Hamilton jiggles his leg, so that Laurens curses, moves the inkpot aside. “ _Hamilton_.”  
  
“I also have work, but it may wait.”  
  
“No, it may not.” Laurens desperately attempts to writ another phrase without blotting the page. “This near the last of it before Walker should take over, and I do not—” His voice stutters as Hamilton presses a light kiss to his neck, just above his cravat. “ _Alexander_.”  
  
Hamilton laughs into his neck, breath warm. “Continue working, then, Sir,” he mouths into the skin.  
  
Laurens glares at his page. If Hamilton wants such competition, he shall have it. He stubbornly writs another sentence.   
  
Hamilton responds by sucking the same spot, biting, until Laurens must say:  
  
“Make no mark there, else others see!”   
  
He feels Hamilton smile. “I have no such choice, when you shall not disrobe.”  
  
Laurens sighs, ignores him, places quill to paper once more.   
  
Hamilton only continues his exploration, kissing up Laurens’ jaw, slipping fingers through hair, down his chest, teasing over coat buttons.   
  
“Hamilton—” Laurens warns, feels the pleasant heat of the room building. “This is not—”   
  
He is stopped by Hamilton forcibly removing the travel desk from his grasp, sliding across so the he sits entirely upon Laurens’ lap, before he laughs quietly, manoeuvres so he settled with a leg either side of Laurens, faces so close their breaths mingle.  
  
He appears quite satisfied with himself.   
  
Laurens settles his hands instinctively over Hamilton’s waist, under coat. “Alexander—”   
  
Hamilton shifts his hips slightly, rolls them; Laurens swallows, breathes in sharp.   
  
“Hello,” Hamilton whispers, eyes glinting wickedly.   
  
“I were trying to work,” Laurens murmurs, with great difficulty, as he feels a steady warmth coiling.   
  
Hamilton smirks. “Aye, but I think I make for much better work.”  
  
Laurens swallows more forcefully. “My dear, we cannot—”   
  
“My love,” counters Hamilton. “We can.”   
  
With that, he shifts his hips again, _presses_ , captures Laurens’ mouth with his, parts his lips delicately, near whines against Laurens’ tongue, and Laurens finds he has no more such excuses to offer.   
  
They kiss for a while in this manner, comfortable and slow, at first, before Hamilton seems to grow more desperate, increases the passion, the messiness, slides his hands back into Laurens’ hair, _tugs_ —  
  
Laurens shifts his own hips, seeking further friction, barely realising he does so, until Hamilton’s hand is trailing down his chest, teasing at the front of his breeches—  
  
He removes a hand from where it lies, tracing pattern’s against Hamilton’s hips, to capture Hamilton’s wrist, still it.   
  
“As much as I should desire—” he manages to gasp. “In this room, we may not—”   
  
“ _Please_ ,” Hamilton responds, presses kisses to Laurens’ lips, his cheek, his jaw, with increasing desperation, moves Laurens’ hand so it lies over Hamilton’s breeches instead. “God, Jack, it has been too long—”   
  
Laurens squeezes his eyes shut, wills the sinful desire to fade.   
  
Of course, it does not.   
  
“Aye,” he agrees hoarsely. “It has.”  
  
Almost two weeks, in fact, since they last engaged in such intimacies.   
  
“So?” Hamilton murmurs, reaching a hand to hook into Laurens’ waistband, as he still keeps Laurens’ hand trapped against his.   
  
“ _God_ ,” Laurens groans. “We truly cannot—”   
  
Hamilton squeezes lightly; Laurens sees stars.   
  
“ _Alexander_ ,” he tries breathlessly. “Any could walk in, here.”  
  
“Damnation,” Hamilton moans. “But this should be some perfect torture, truly. Exquisite, but torture nonetheless.”   
  
“My dear boy, do you never run out of such words?” Laurens queries in exasperation, desperately tries to focus on anything but the simmering heat and desire of their closeness.   
  
Hamilton manages a chuckle. “When describing you, my Laurens? Never.”   
  
Laurens cannot stop a smile, leans forward to claim Hamilton’s lips in a soft kiss. “I love you,” he whispers gently.  
  
Hamilton’s eyes blow even wider. “I do not think I may ever tire of hearing you say so.” He kisses Laurens gently in return. “As I love you.”  
  
Laurens carefully removes Hamilton’s wandering hands again, shifts him back slightly. “And it is because I love you so that I say we must stop, here. I would not have us end in the way of Enslin.”  
  
Hamilton hums, sounding cross. “You would leave me in such a state of terrible desire?”  
  
Laurens rolls his eyes. “Aye, I would; it were you that initiated such, anyhow.”  
  
“Rogue,” Hamilton glares mischievously. “A shameful tease.”  
  
Laurens laughs, shakes his head. “I shall indeed play such a part if it stops any harm befalling you.”  
  
Hamilton makes a face. “I maintain that we should be able—”   
  
“No.” Laurens playfully tips Hamilton over, shoves him off his lap and onto the bed. “Not here, not now.”  
  
Hamilton glares further from his place laying on the bed, shining red hair forming an untidy, fiery halo around his face.   
  
He pouts. “I may have to conduct my own pleasure, then.”  
  
Laurens raises his eyebrows. “If you are to conduct such as that, at least wait until I have left.”  
  
Hamilton’s eyes flash with wicked humour. “You could watch.”  
  
Laurens feels his entire body flush with heat; he swallows nervously. “I think that should rather defeat the point of us stopping. No?”  
  
Hamilton frowns up from under his eyelashes. “Aye, I suppose that begrudgingly true. I think I must locate some more private place, else go near mad for the want of you.”  
  
Laurens stands abruptly, knows his face aflame. “Aye, indeed.”  
  
Hamilton only chuckles again. “Ah, John. We have shared such intimacies as intercourse, and yet I may still embarrass you so easily.”  
  
“ _Christ_ ,” Laurens hisses. “You cannot say things so bold as that where some may hear!”  
  
Hamilton shrugs, sits up, adjusts his fairly ruined queue. “There are none here to hear such but you, Jack, so I think you may not fear.”  
  
“Still,” says Laurens. “Still.”  
  
The rigid, resigned expression of Lieutenant Enslin rises up behind his eyes.   
  
“We had better to the office, before any think to search us out.”  
  
“I suppose,” huffs Hamilton. “But I shall find a place where I may have you, damn it, else I _will_ go near mad.”  
  
Laurens only flushes, straightens his coat, retrieves his desk.   
  
As they leave the cabin, Hamilton reaches out to stop him, bestows one last gentle kiss.

***

After two or so more hours of being returned to the office, the aides begin to finish their tasks for the eve, wonder if they might secure drinks, food, rest of some sort.  
  
Fitzgerald makes some joke about whether or not Hamilton shall ever share their bed; it seems the rest of the aides have discovered good cheer again, that the events of the morning have finally left their thoughts.   
  
And why not? The sins of Enslin pose no relevancy to them, except for them to wonder on the peculiar crimes of damned men.  
  
“Oh!” Hamilton suddenly cries. “I had near forgot!”   
  
All turn towards him, pausing in their cleaning up and chatter.   
  
“Forgot what, Sir?” Meade inquires with raised eyebrows and a cheerful smile. “Forgot sleep should be a thing? Aye, Hammie, and it a thing the rest of us sorely require.”  
  
“Ha,” replies Hamilton flatly. “No, I have not forgot sleep, I merely sacrifice it to a greater cause.”  
  
“The greater cause of finances,” Laurens mutters dryly.   
  
Hamilton shoots him a jokingly betrayed glance.   
  
“Finances?” queries Meade. “Finances, Ham?”   
  
Hamilton waves an impatient hand. “A private joke, it matters not.”  
  
“A private joke?” Tilghman somehow manages to sound gravely wounded by such an idea. “May I not be privy to such?”   
  
“No.” Hamilton sighs theatrically. “You may not. Anyhow—” He raises a hand to forestall any further jests at his expense. “I forgot that Laurens and I be required by the Baron this eve.”  
  
There is a short silence as all take this in.   
  
“We are?” Laurens wonders with confusion; why did Hamilton not mention such previously? Granted, they were somewhat distracted, he supposes.   
  
“Aye.”   
  
“The Baron?” Harrison asks with a frown. “At this hour? Should Tilghman be required also?”   
  
“Nay.” Hamilton shrugs. “Only us both.”  
  
Tilghman snorts. “I think I may be glad of that.”  
  
Laurens wonders on this, frowns at his desk. If Tilghman not required…he does not think he should like that he and Hamilton have been summoned only, and on the day of Enslin’s drumming out also.   
  
“Why so?” he says quietly.   
  
Hamilton only shakes his head. “He did not say; or at least, Du Ponceau and Walker offered no such translated excuse.”   
  
Tilghman grins. “I am sure you shall soon find out.”  
  
“Aye,” mutters Laurens dourly. “That be well for you to say, as you not required.”  
  
“Precisely!” Tilghman laughs. “I shall sleep instead. As I crave my bed, this be wonderful news.”  
  
“In any case,” Hamilton points out. “We shall be back afore long, I am sure.”  
  
“Hmm.” Harrison grins, _almost_ in a manner that implies cheek. “Perhaps. We shall not wait up anyhow, for the Baron already known to enjoy a late night. I would be careful when you stumble back to our cabin, for Meade may have you both sleep on the floor should you wake him.”  
  
“Oh,” says Meade with a sharp grin. “Not may; I definitely shall.”  
  
“If that is so,” Laurens says. “We shall be so quiet that we could ambush you if we wished.”   
  
Harrison huffs a laugh, as Laurens stands wearily, grasping a candle so that he may light a lantern to see their way.   
  
Hamilton bustles with coats and hats.   
  
“Be careful what liquor the Baron may supply!” Meade jests as they exit. “I have heard terrible tales of some such things he may possess!”   
  
“That should reassure me not at all,” Laurens murmurs, as he and Hamilton close the front door, step out into the snow melted mud.   
  
“I am sure it shall be nothing,” Hamilton responds.   
  
“I am sure it shall,” Laurens disagrees. “For it seems too much a coincidence on such a day.”  
  
“Well,” huffs Hamilton. “We may hope that is all it should be.”

  
At the door to the Baron’s headquarters, Hamilton knocks, appearing suddenly rather sour in mood; perhaps Laurens has so infected him with his.   
  
There be a bark, and the sound of paws upon wood, before Walker opens the door hesitantly, hand restraining the Baron’s Italian greyhound, Azor.   
  
This pleases Laurens somewhat; he should much prefer the dog’s company than any else here, excluding Hamilton, of course.  
  
“Ah,” says Walker. “Hamilton remembered, then; I were starting to think it not so.” His eyes flit cautiously to Laurens, then to Hamilton.  
  
Hamilton watches Azor warily, which Laurens should find a little amusing; the dog is rather large, after all, and Hamilton not so large, for a man.  
  
“Aye,” Hamilton replies, voice terse. “And why have we been so required? I doubt it for translation purposes.”  
  
“No,” Walker agrees, clears his throat. “The Baron…wished a word.”  
  
“Hmm.” Laurens frowns. “Is that so?”  
  
Walker glances away, ushers them indoors; he seems rather awkward, and Laurens begins to think he may know what shall be discussed.   
  
He should prefer to turn around and head straight back out the door, but alas, that not possible.   
  
Once inside, they are escorted to what appears a sitting room, not the office they be used to. The Baron is seated in a large armchair beside the fireplace, with such providing the only light in the dim space. Du Ponceau is rather awkwardly perched on the arm of the Baron’s chair, writing on some travel desk.   
  
Already, Laurens very much dislikes the domestic feel to the room, should very much prefer to depart with all haste.   
  
Azor bounds past, takes up position by the Baron’s feet, the Baron exclaiming over him for several minutes, whilst Hamilton and Laurens stand uneasily in the doorway.   
  
Laurens resists brushing his hand against Hamilton’s, for this a room of men that should notice such as that with keen eyes.   
  
Finally, the Baron looks up. “Laurens! Hamilton! _Assieds-toi_ , _s’il vous plait_.” His simple French is halting, and accented, by understandable, as he gestures at an unoccupied settee.   
  
Nervously, and with little else they may do, they sit, making sure to leave the proper amount of space between them.   
  
Walker offers them wine, which Laurens should usually forgo (though it a rare enough beverage in camp), but feels apprehensive enough that he should accept with little opposition.   
  
“Sir,” Hamilton finally says, after all have been poured wine. “I should like to understand why you have required us this eve; I had thought our work with you complete.”  
  
Du Ponceau looks up slightly, but does not seem to fully understand the English, so leaves Walker to translate straight to German. It seems when Walker said he spoke _very little_ German, he were being modest.  
  
Baron von Steuben’s eyes glint in the firelight, gaze flicking between the two aides. Walker begins to translate quickly, his worth clearly illustrated with such.   
  
“He says he wishes to speak of the court martial.”  
  
Laurens freezes. “Sir, I do not see why that should concern us; it done with now, anyhow”  
  
The Baron frowns at Walker’s translation of Laurens’ words, replies in a short snap of German.   
  
“’Ee says _ne sois pas obtus_ , _messieurs_ ,” Du Ponceau pronounces sarcastically.   
_  
Do not be obtuse, gentlemen._  
  
Hamilton glares, appears to tense as though he may stand. “Do not insult us, Sir, for we are neither of us…obtuse, as you say. But Laurens should be correct, this matter does not concern us.”  
  
It seems Hamilton’s friendship with the Baron, and acceptance of his jests, has a limit; this clear insinuation of sins committed a step too far.  
  
“No?” says Walker, speaking for the Baron. “When those of us in this room could be so condemned for the same crime?”   
  
Laurens clenches his fists, rises rapidly to his feet. “I think I may be required back at His Excellency’s headquarters; I cannot stand for such—”   
  
“Sit down, Laurens.” Walker again, though with his own words, for the Baron has said nothing. “Let him say his piece.”  
  
Laurens only glares. “If his piece may accuse us of such things, I think not.”  
  
“Laurens,” says Baron von Steuben, voice lowered, head tilted slightly. “Hamilton. _Ich weiß, was du teilst_ , _denn dieselbe unnatürliche Liebe verfolgt mich_.”  
  
“I know what you share,” Walker murmurs softly, skittishly. “For the same unnatural love haunts me.” He still does not seem _entirely_ comfortable with such crimes as this spoken aloud.  
  
Beside him, Laurens feels Hamilton freeze, then slump. “Even so,” he mutters. “This court martial had naught to do with us.”   
  
“Hamilton,” hisses Laurens, leaning into Hamilton’s ear. “You would give us away?”  
  
Hamilton rolls his eyes, touches Laurens’ hand slightly; Laurens draws back with dismay. “They already know, John, is that not clear? The best outcome here should be all agree the secrets of those present must stay amongst those present only.”  
  
The Baron pats Azor’s head slowly, gestures that Du Ponceau put his desk away. Du Ponceau obliges, takes up a glass of wine, before settling back on the arm of the chair.   
  
Laurens glares at the them, and at Walker; feels hot anger swell. He should very much dislike having his hand forced here; does not in any way appreciate this meeting.   
  
“We were none of us acquainted with Enslin, nor Monhort, and if we should have attempted to interfere, it would have been clear we—”   
  
Baron von Steuben cuts him off, eyes narrowed, shaking his head.   
  
“I do not think we ought to have interfered,” Walker translates quietly, though his expression seems to object to this idea of leaving the men to their fates still. “You misunderstand me. That not why I have asked you here.”  
  
“Then why?” demands Hamilton hotly. “You know I should have nothing but the greatest respect for you, Sir, but I think it foolhardy to gather us all under such pretence, when to find one of us out may be to risk us all, and—”   
  
“Hamilton,” huffs the Baron, laughing softly. “ _Du hast zu viele Wörter_.”   
  
“You have too many words,” Walker says, wincing as though to remind Hamilton this not his reprimand of him; it the Baron’s.   
  
Hamilton’s eyes narrow; Laurens presses his lips together, expecting some outburst.   
  
“Alexander—”   
  
“Then why, Sir?” Hamilton pressures. “Why? Why inform us you know of our sins in such an open manner, on this day of all days? Do you think to threaten us?”   
  
Walker takes a shaky sip of wine, before he translates what the Baron says next. “I only think that we may wish to share in this distress, to be among those who understand this distress, and do not judge for it. Is that so bad, Sirs?”   
  
Hamilton appears nonplussed, blinks several times. “Sir, with respect, I do not—”   
  
“Kiss your Laurens!” Baron von Steuben suddenly proclaims, in the first English Laurens has ever heard him use, before lapsing back into German.   
  
“You are with friends, here,” Walker continues for von Steuben, face flushing. “And your affection be allowed; it is not a dirty thing, in this room, for this night. You understand?”   
  
Theoretically, Laurens understands all these words. Logically, however, when they are put together so, they create a sentence that should not be spoken, should not exist, and yet does.  
  
Hamilton, too, appears to be struggling with these ideas. “Sir, I do not—”   
  
Du Ponceau rolls his eyes, leans forward to kiss Baron von Steuben very chastely on the lips. He turns to face Laurens and Hamilton, gaze slightly wicked and defiant, but soft at the same time.   
  
“ _Vous comprenez maintenant, imbéciles_?”   
  
“ _Oui_ ,” mutters Hamilton, cheeks flushed deeply, shifts closer to Laurens on the settee, covers Laurens’ hand with his.   
  
Laurens tries to lift his hand out from under Hamilton’s, but Hamilton only grasps it firmer.   
  
“John,” he whispers, leaning close. “For one night?” His voice has taken on an uncharacteristic pleading tone, and Laurens suddenly recognises how badly Hamilton should want for this, for their care to be seen, and validated, and empathised; not despised, nor judged, nor vilified, nor end in disgust, court martial and hanging.  
  
There is terrible danger still to be had, here, for even in this room one man may break and confess, and this the exact sort of situation Laurens should wish to avoid with all haste.   
  
And yet—  
  
Hamilton’s gaze on him is begging, the Baron’s eyes holding sympathy and pain; Walker watching with fear, but also some terrible sort of desperation.   
  
With a sigh, he nods stiffly, gulps his wine improperly.   
  
Hamilton lets out a small, odd gasp, cautiously lays his head on Laurens’ shoulder.   
  
The Baron smiles softly.   
  
Walker pours more wine.   
  
Laurens drinks more wine; unwise, perhaps, but of great necessity.

  
As the hour grows later, and tempers be mellowed by drunkenness, Du Ponceau appears to melt so that his legs lie over the Baron’s. Hamilton’s head on Laurens’ shoulder slips lower and lower; he surprises him with a light kiss upon his neck.   
  
Laurens twists his head to peer wearily down at Hamilton, means to reprimand, as he still not so comfortable as that, but Hamilton startles him with a sloppy kiss pressed to his lips.   
  
“I love you, Jack,” he slurs, more run together air than words.   
  
Laurens huffs slightly, stiffens, glances across the room to where Walker watches them in the dying firelight.   
  
“If that is not love,” Walker whispers. “I do not know what should be.”  
  
Laurens only swallows uneasily, gazes down at where his and Hamilton’s hands lie interlocked on Laurens’ thigh.   
  
They lie in plain sight, where all might see, and no matter his fear, he is oddly grateful to the Baron for this one sanctioned moment.   
  
Hamilton is, however, rather inebriated, and Laurens knows from previous encounters that he appears to lose much of his inhibition in such cases; perhaps it time they retired to their cabin.   
  
They bid the others farewell, Baron von Steuben watching them go with a fond, lazy smile, and Walker closing the door behind them with recognition in his eyes; Laurens feels he may resent revealing himself so clearly come morn.   
  
The idea of retiring seems easier said than done, for though Laurens recognises himself as not-at-all sober, Hamilton appears to fall into an entirely different category.   
  
It appears he may have imbibed a fair amount of Laurens’ wine, as well as his own, if his stumbling steps and stuttering breath against Laurens’ neck be anything to judge by.  
  
That, or he thinks acting this way shall entice Laurens into actions he may be too cautious for otherwise.  
  
“Hamilton,” he hisses. “Stop.”  
  
 _Stop_ is a word with meaning antithesis to Hamilton, and he does no such thing. Instead, he only clutches Laurens tighter, presses a kiss to his cheek.   
  
“ _John_ ,” he whines. “We ought to have stayed; the Baron would not mind if we were to take a room, and—”   
  
“Dear God.” Laurens grasps Hamilton as he sways slightly. “Do not even _suggest_ such a thing.” The colour that floods his cheeks violently be not from drink, nor cold, but from the idea of engaging in such intimacies with the knowledge of others.   
  
The humiliation of such a proposition!  
  
“I think we really ought to sleep,” he says, cutting through whatever desires Hamilton may be slurring now.   
  
“Aye, to bed,” Hamilton murmurs. “But I cannot to bed, for I share with Fitzgerald, and I shall be _haunted_ if I may not bed you—”   
  
“Damnation, Hamilton!” Laurens hisses, grits his teeth, nods at a night sentry who passes, regarding the two aides with no small amusement at Hamilton’s drunkenness. “You would have us found out with such words!”   
  
Hamilton only snorts, rests his head against Laurens’ shoulder as they trudge unsteadily through the mud and darkness.   
  
“You would tell me you do not desire me, my love?”  
  
Laurens squeezes his eyes shut a second. It be not fair of Hamilton to invoke _my love_ for the effect it may have upon him. “Of course I should desire you, Alexander, but I also know we have no privacy for such as that.” His tone carries no small amount of exasperation.

  
Thankfully, after a short while longer of stumbling, Laurens may make out Potts’ house, and the cabin, through the darkness and shifting torch lights.   
  
Once they reach headquarters, however, there still the issue of Hamilton’s inebriation. Entering the aides’ cabin may prove disastrous, Meade’s threats of a bed on the floor ringing in Laurens’ ears. And certainly, Hamilton shall not enter quietly, nor gracefully, in his present state.   
  
Laurens also does not entirely trust that Hamilton will not attempt to begin some clandestine intimacy right under their fellow aides’ noses.   
  
This predicament compounded by the cold that still lingers, else he may suggest they simply lay down under some tree.  
  
There appears only one such solution; the office, perhaps?  
  
Not the best of locations, for the General and his wife being quartered upstairs, but it does possess a door, and a somewhat separate space.   
  
Mayhap Hamilton can be gently convinced to work on some essay? It matters not what, in his current mood, except that it provide some distraction.   
  
“Why do we enter here?” Hamilton whispers, though it not a particularly quiet attempt at such.   
  
Laurens grunts as Hamilton trips over the doorframe; he catches his weight, realises his own balance not so steady as he thought. “Meade should see fit to smother us in sleep if we enter with such loudness as I think you may.”   
  
“You suppose I cannot be quiet?” Hamilton mutters, breath stuttering down Laurens neck, causing a shiver at the base of his spine.   
  
“I know you cannot. You may have many estimable qualities, Sir, but silence be not one.”  
  
“Ha!” Hamilton laughs good naturedly as Laurens’ attempts to shush him.   
  
“Hamilton, you prove such as I just said.”  
  
Hamilton pulls a face as they stumble into the office, Laurens depositing Hamilton in a chair, scrounging up a sad tallow candle before the lantern he carries gives up.   
  
He turns round to close the door over, then glances back at Hamilton, who sits slouched in the chair, legs splayed.   
  
Laurens raises an eyebrow. “Such a gentlemanly display, my dear.”  
  
Hamilton only smirks. “I see no need to be coy; you know that I am no such gentleman already.”  
  
Laurens snorts with amusement. His head suddenly spins; eyes widening, he grasps for a chair, as the effects of his own liquor intake make themselves known.   
  
Hamilton is laughing softly. “You seem no better off than I.”  
  
Laurens only rolls his eyes, places the candle down carefully before he may drop it. “Perhaps not.”  
  
They sit in silence a moment, Hamilton slumping further into his chair, eyes growing hooded.   
  
Laurens swallows, glances anywhere but at he.   
  
“I think the Baron would protect us,” Hamilton says softly, appearing suddenly remarkedly more sober; perhaps Laurens’ theory on his actual level of intoxication proves accurate.  
  
Laurens sighs, rests his elbow against a desk, his head against his hand. “I think he may protect Walker and Du Ponceau, but I know not whether that should extend to us, if such may threaten them.”  
  
“Hmm.” Hamilton reaches up to loosen his cravat; Laurens finds his eyes unintentionally drawn to the skin usually hidden there. “I suppose you may be right.”  
  
Laurens glances down, fiddles with the fraying edges of his vest. There feels an odd heaviness to the air, where they both must contemplate the danger of their situation, and yet not let it ruin what time they may share.   
  
A difficult act of compromise, it seems; their dance having been transformed from a simple duet to one where they must balance on a rope in tandem, and somehow not fall.   
  
“John…” Hamilton breaks the silence with this gentle murmur. “Jack?”  
  
“Aye?” Laurens looks up, but this seems a mistake; Hamilton is smirking, eyes glinting in the light of the candle, a light flush to his cheeks. He stands unsteadily, makes his way across the room to Laurens, stares down with a grin.   
  
“You are drunk,” tries Laurens. “As I am, I think, and this our _office_ , Hamilton.”  
  
Hamilton shakes his head, reaches a hand out, presses fingers to Laurens’ jaw. “But you are so beautiful, John.”  
  
Laurens blinks, shifts back slightly in his chair, tries to duck out of Hamilton’s hand; his fingers hold him fast.   
  
“I—” He stares upwards, meets Hamilton’s heavy gaze, the unique blue seeming near black in the dim light. “I think you should be the more beautiful of us, Alexander.”  
  
“Nonsense, Sir.” Hamilton sways slightly, or perhaps this merely a pretence he uses to settle across Laurens’ lap. “I have certainly been called striking, I admit, but I think the beauty belongs to you, my love.”  
  
Laurens presses his lips together, shifts in his seat; the air in the room seems a solid thing, settling across his clothes and skin as though Hamilton weaves new realities with his words.   
  
“Alexander—”   
  
Hamilton raises his other hand so that both hold Laurens’ jaw; it should seem a strange reversal to have his face above Laurens’, but curiously, Laurens finds he rather enjoys such.   
  
“Think no more of Enslin, or von Steuben, or Walker,” Hamilton murmurs, breath puffing softly against Laurens’ lips. “Think only of me, and what I may do to you.”  
  
“That seems rather immodest.” Laurens tries, with no small amount of desperation, to forestall what is about to occur; someone must remain somewhat sensible, here!   
  
“When have I ever demonstrated such modesty as that?” Hamilton demands, seeming near insulted. His breath smells like spiced wine, his lips still slightly darkened by it, and Laurens has never ached for something so badly as this.  
  
“Never,” he finally replies. “But I should love even that, my dear boy.”  
  
Hamilton gasps, shifts in Laurens’ lap, creates some perfect friction, and Laurens’ restraint is defeated, the rational part of his mind given up as a lost cause.   
  
He kisses Hamilton as though he has never hungered more for anything in his life, savours the lingering taste of the wine, moans as Hamilton slides a hand down between them, flicks into Laurens’ mouth.   
  
With shaking fingers, Laurens fiddles with the knots of his own cravat, tosses it aside; Hamilton takes this as permission to disconnect their kiss, begin making his way down Laurens’ jaw, his throat, eliciting sounds that Laurens should not know he could create before this moment, as though he an instrument that only Hamilton possesses the skill to play.   
  
Laurens slides a hand into Hamilton’s hair— _he should never love any other such feeling more—_ tugs gently through the strands, Hamilton throwing his head back slightly, allowing Laurens his own access to the soft velvety skin of Hamilton’s throat.   
  
They are both gasping, and panting, the desire of not having the opportunity for such afore now stretching restraint to breaking point; the heat of it all feels near oppressive, but in the most wonderful, otherworldly way possible.   
  
And yet, they in their office, in a place where others may come and go, despite the hour, and there not a lock on this door, or at least if there were, they take no notice of such, and also, they be so caught in the pleasures they may elicit in the other, their attention quite elsewhere.   
  
They be drunk, and loose, and uncaring, and this such a dangerous mood for men as they, a dangerous place, a terrifyingly reckless lapse in judgment for two men who purport to possess some intelligence, and this—  
  
This their undoing.  
  
Neither of them, not one, despite their usual caution, thinks to listen for the turning of a door knob.   
  
Such a quiet sound, so unobtrusive, and yet also the signal of a likely doom.   
  
Said door knob may as well turn with the sound of a noose, for it should herald exactly that.  
  
In some other time, in some other place, perhaps no man thinks to retrieve some work he left, does not think to search for his missing fellow aides, _does not make attempt to enter this office_.   
  
But this night, this time, this place, some man does.   
  
The door knob turns, and Laurens hears nothing but the singing of his own blood, the chorus of pleasure in his own veins, as Hamilton kisses him deeply.   
  
There is a crash as a candle and candle holder go clattering to the floor, and—  
  
“Dear God!”  
  
At this terrifyingly startled exclamation Laurens and Hamilton break apart in a wild panic, Hamilton rapidly shifting off Laurens’ lap and falling heavily against the desk, clothes askew.   
  
Such icy terror floods Laurens’ veins that he thinks himself immovable, utterly intrenched, his mind forgetting how to function, his lungs forgetting they require breath, his heart galloping at ten times the speed so needed.   
  
“Dear God!” Meade says again, eyes wide and horrified in the light of the remaining candle, for it is Meade that has seemingly finally discovered them, Meade who now holds their fate in his hands.   
  
“Meade!” begins Hamilton, tone desperate, words spilling over his lips in the juddering, inebriated panic that Laurens also shares. “This is not—we do not—”   
  
Meade holds a hand up in a sharp, shaken motion; a near visceral reaction in the air around his palm.   
  
“Hamilton—stop. Do not insult my intelligence, nor my eyesight.” His voice is tense, muscles in his neck taut.   
  
“God,” whispers Laurens to himself. “ _God_.”

Oh, Lord, no.

_No_.   
  
Silence falls as Meade very slowly reaches back to close the door. His gaze flicks between the two of them in the dim lighting, Hamilton self-consciously, slowly, moving a strand of hair from his face, as though he wishes to make no moment that may provoke aggressive reproach.   
  
Meade still says nothing, eyes seeming near devastated as he regards them.   
  
Then:   
  
“I should not have—I wish I had not…” Meade trails away, so that Laurens does no know what he may have wished, exactly, but could likely guess.   
  
Meade frowns, presses both hands to his forehead, fingertips digging into the skin. Shadows dance ominously across his face.   
  
“Do I dream?” he mutters bitterly. “Is this some nightmare borne of the unpleasantness of the drumming out? Of my queries on Enslin when it were truly a sin I ought not to be curious of?”  
  
Laurens flicks his gaze to Hamilton, who is in turn watching Meade cautiously. He still feels unable to move; Meade could decide to run him through with a bayonet and he would make no protest of it.  
  
Hamilton very slowly stands a little straighter. “Perhaps you do dream, Sir. Perhaps you ought—”   
  
Meade only shakes his head rapidly. “I would think in my dreams I may, at least, be blessed with a silent Hamilton.” There be no small amount of desperation clear in his words.   
  
Hamilton obligingly ceases talking; such a rarity speaks volumes of his terror.  
  
Laurens would wish to reach out, grasp Hamilton’s hand, for if this the last time he may do such…but he finds himself still immovable, no matter how much he might beg his limbs to obey.  
  
“Meade…” Laurens finally finds his words, or one word, at least, before his voice gives up on its attempt.   
  
“No…” says Meade. He removes his hands from his forehead, raises his eyes to regard them sharply, sorrowfully. “Say nothing, please.”  
  
“Then _you_ must say something!” Hamilton erupts; of them three, he the one who may best use words as weapons, phrases as shields, and this inability to understand Meade’s reaction should likely frighten him more than if Meade would shout, would blame. “Make some accusation, yell for the General, condemn us, hate us, refute us, just something, anything, _please_.”   
  
Meade turns away; his hands are visibly shaking. “And what would you have me say, Hamilton? Should I suppose you both sodomites? Is that it?”   
  
Laurens feels himself shrink, erode, duck his head, shoulders hunching. He has heard Enslin called many things; he has heard Harrison proclaim many judgements.   
  
But to hear Meade, their dear Meade, say, with such poison—  
 _  
sodomites  
  
—_and have this derision directed at them…  
  
Any such strides Laurens may have made in not hating his nature so ardently for these affections should seem insignificant.   
  
He near blanks out, becomes numb, begins desperate recitation, begins thinking how he might best end this, end himself, before any such official judgment may be pronounced— _  
_  
Hamilton, it seems, must run through the same awful, desperate thoughts, for he begins a slurred babble of pleading, an action usually so foreign to his temperament.  
  
“Meade, please God, if you should report our sin, as I suppose you must, report that it my failing, report that I molest Laurens, for he with so much he may lose, and I with so little—”   
  
Laurens attempts to speak, to refute such stupidity as this, for Hamilton should be the far superior of them two, and if any should suffer for their sins and crimes, it should not be he; he shall not allow Hamilton to fall on a sword so created from a downfall they share—  
  
But Meade once more silences the both of them with such an awful look that Laurens physically quails.  
  
“ _Damnation_ ,” Meade exclaims, turns his face back towards them; his expression seems worn and conflicted, hands clenched at his side. “Why must you have been so foolishly indiscreet as this?”   
  
Laurens blinks in sudden confusion, thinks to dispute, as surely they be usually careful enough in their recklessness, their affection—?  
  
Again, Meade easily silences them before they may speak, with a simple, frustrated glare. “I should think,” he starts, clears his throat uncomfortably. “I should think you lucky it is only I who see this. Though I have…suspected, somewhat, that such immorality occurs here, I did not truly think to witness…” He trails away, face appearing quite hopeless.  
  
Hamilton takes a step closer Meade; Laurens can read strange anger in his eyes. “ _Suspected_?” he asks, face appearing white even in the candlelight. “Suspected, Sir?”   
  
And, oh, that an important thing Hamilton should latch onto, Laurens’ frazzled and terrified mind realises.   
  
For Meade to have truly _suspected_ —  
  
Meade stiffens at Hamilton’s offended tone. “Aye, indeed!” His words grow increasingly irate. “Suspected! How could I not, when I believe I have near walked in on some immoral conduct several times afore now?”   
  
Hamilton visibly wilts under Meade’s renewed anger, slumps against the desk, undone vest buttons catching conspicuously in the light. Laurens finds himself suddenly resigned. He thinks he may know such an end as this were threatening the horizon of their affections since first they begun; did not Enslin’s shameful demise demonstrate such clear?   
  
At such a realisation, such a reckoning, Laurens feels all tension leave him. He summons the courage to meet Meade’s eye firmly.   
  
“When you so inform the General of what crimes you have witnessed between us, and if he so wishes death upon us, may I ask that you suggest the firing line over a noose? So that we may at least die as condemned soldiers, rather than as criminals who lack any such honour.”  
  
Meade’s mouth twists bitterly. “Oh, damn you, Laurens, for saying such. Damn the both of you for forcing my position here.” He gestures with frantic resentment at them. “How do you think I may report my fellow aides, my dear friends in fact, and not carry such heartbreak to the grave? You are such fools!”   
  
Hamilton is glaring now, arms crossed, eyes sparking with rageful stubbornness. “If you were so certain of our egregious crimes, why have you not already reported us so? I should think you somewhat complicit, now, also.”  
  
Meade sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose; his agitated anger seems to fade to tired frustration. “Honestly, Hammie, fuck you.”  
  
Laurens’ eyes widen at the crude profanity, such as he has never heard from Meade before, but Meade merely waves a hand at him in a gesture of _stay silence, you absolute buffoon_.   
  
“I have not reported you so,” Meade begins quietly, sadly. “For I only suspected, and this be not the same as knowing. I could go my entire life suspecting, and be all the happier for it, as ignorant suspicion be far better than irrefutable truth.” He sighs heavily. “I am not required to act upon suspicion, for it should allow me room for doubt, and doubt should stay my hand. But this—”   
  
Meade turns away again, seems to near collapse in on himself. “Damn you, Sirs, for I am indeed complicit; if I am to see you hang for it, I may as well hang alongside you, for I do not know how I should survive the guilt of such as that.” He pauses for a moment, speaks near inaudibly. “And yet I know this a crime, a sin, and I do not know— _damnation_ , but I do not know!”   
  
And that, that is perhaps the worst of all of this; Meade is their fellow aide, a particular friend, should mourn greatly if they were lost in battle, and yet, so grievous their sin here, their crime, that he should still not be entirely decided on whether to report them or no.   
  
“Meade—” tries Hamilton, takes a shaky step towards him. Meade skitters back slightly.   
_  
As though we may so infect him with this sin_ , Laurens thinks bitterly.  
  
Meade then holds a hand up, turns his gaze downwards, eyes directed at the floor.   
  
“I think—I think for now I shall attempt sleep; the General should still be asleep anyhow. Perhaps…” He closes his eyes momentarily, face creased as though in physical pain. “Perhaps things may seem clearer in the day; what actions I might take. Perhaps I may wake to find this a nightmare, a creation of my own mind.”  
  
“Perhaps,” Hamilton murmurs, and it the thick fear in his tone that frightens Laurens most of all.  
  
“Hmm.” Meade hums, stumbles towards the door, casts one last look at them, eyes flitting between their terrified faces. “I should not—I should not—I pray that I might awaken and have forgotten all.”  
  
“I do not know if God shall answers prayers on such a topic,” Hamilton near hisses. “For we are detested and abhorrent sodomites, are we not?”  
  
Meade winces at these words, so spoken by Harrison, read from the General Orders. “I—damn it, Hamilton, you make this situation no better.”  
  
Hamilton is glaring again, eyes alight, chin raised. “I merely state what I am, Meade; I am under no illusions.”  
  
Meade blinks. A ghost of a smile almost seems to cross his face. “You know, Hamilton, if there be one thing none may accuse you of, it should be cowardice, even for the sake of self-preservation.”  
  
“There seems no point in denial when you have so seen it,” Hamilton snaps. “Our honour, our very lives, be in the choice you must make, now.”  
  
Meade sighs, clenches his fists as he makes to leave the office once more. His eyes flare with devastation, with sorrow, with no small amount of still-present, startled horror. “Aye, and if you should not be damned for what I saw, I should damn you for that instead.”  
  
With those last parting words, Meade escapes out the door.   
  
When Hamilton turns towards Laurens, he be horrified to realise just how truly terrified Hamilton appears, when he seemed so composed mere moments ago. He stumbles as he turns to Laurens, Laurens catching him by the shoulders; his eyes shine with tears, and Laurens realises a single, shining droplet has already escaped down his cheek, like to reflected fire upon Hamilton’s face, an echo of how they may burn.  
  
“Alexander,” Laurens whispers, hoarse, heart constricting.   
  
“I am sorry,” Hamilton tries, voice cracking. “ _God_ , John, I am so, so sorry.”  
  
And Laurens could rage, here, he could cast blame, for it were Hamilton that started what so gave them away this night, but in truth, Laurens be just as much to blame, for he could have refused, practised restraint just once in his Godforsaken life.   
  
But he did not, and now they here.   
  
“It be not your fault,” he murmurs. “No more than it be mine.”  
  
“Do you think he shall report us?” Hamilton wraps his arms around Laurens’ waist, presses his head under his chin, into his chest; Laurens breathes in the familiar scent of his soft hair.   
  
“I…I do not know, truly.” He wraps his arms round Hamilton in return, kisses his head softly; Hamilton shakes, and Laurens knows not if it from drunkenness, or tiredness, or sobs. Mayhap all three together.   
  
“I meant what I so said, however; I should rather love you and perish, than never have known such care.”  
  
Hamilton shakes his head; his fingers claw at Laurens’ side painfully. “John, I cannot—I cannot see you hung. I could not bear it.”  
  
Laurens only presses his lips together, tries frantically to erase the image his mind supplies, of Hamilton swinging, blue-faced and broken-necked in the breeze.   
  
This were what he meant when he said he had no wish to be Hamilton’s ruin.   
  
“I am so sorry, also, my dear boy,” he murmurs into Hamilton’s hair. “We must pray Meade could not bear it either.”  
  
Hamilton snorts, but it sounds nearer hysteria than amusement.   
  
“Do not pray, please, for I fear the Lord may purposefully spite us if you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter could be alternatively titled “In which Baron von Steuben is the gay uncle we all need, and Laurens & Hamilton are Dramatic Idiots who need to learn to lock doors” ehehehe.
> 
> Also: my justification for Meade finding out (if I need one in historical *fiction* lol) is twofold: 
> 
> 1) A letter that McHenry (an aide we haven’t met yet) sends to Hamilton in 1780, that mentions “He [Meade] thrust himself up the chimney this morning, while we were dressing around the fire, in order to be more at liberty as I supposed to read your letter, or hide anything it might contain, from profane eyes”. In my headcanon (and tbh in quite a few other people’s it seems) Meade hides to read this letter bc he *knows*, and Hamilton has written something about Laurens in it. 
> 
> 2) Hamilton and Meade were very close friends right up until Laurens died, and then they barely seemed to correspond again. Perhaps Meade knowing what Laurens meant to him was too painful for Hamilton to bear, *or* their letters were destroyed, because they contained incriminating things? But that’s just my two cents lol.
> 
> And confession time (~here’s what I’ve got~): Life has been *busy* lately and I’ve now completely run out of pre-written material. I will be trying my absolute hardest to continue posting content each Friday, but if there is a slight delay, rest assured that I am definitely still writing this! There is no hiatus or anything unless I say so :)
> 
> French translation:   
> -Assieds-toi, s’il vous plait: Take a seat, please  
> -Vous comprenez maintenant, imbéciles?: Do you understand now, you fools?


	16. A Judgement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, oh my god, this chapter was supposed to get us through to April, and it did not. *sigh* I promise time will move faster soon (for April brings with it our favourite fighting Frenchman)!
> 
> Also! I must give a shout out to the Revolutionary Junkies discord, y’all are so lovely, and amazing, and encouraging :D My motivation was *severely lacking* this week, but the wonderful antics (and zombie songs) of that group kept me going, so thank you! <3 (feel free to join btw if ya feel, we talk Hamilton, Turn and all things amrev https://discord.gg/XksnCzAfVv)

_Winter Encampment  
Valley Forge  
March 23rd – March 26th 1778_

Meade says nothing for a week.  
  
That is, he does not mention what crime he has so witnessed to any, but also does not speak to either Laurens, or Hamilton.   
  
In this, he is clever, for whilst it clear to Laurens and Hamilton that Meade purposely avoids conversing with them, he manages to speak around them in a manner that means none of the other aides seemingly notice his bitter silence towards them.  
  
Laurens wonders whether such a space of time should mean Meade shall not turn them in after all, or whether it means he should be slowly building up the courage to report them, and so doom them either to disgrace or death.  
  
Such aggressive silence as this on a topic which could well cost he or Hamilton their lives leaves Laurens in a constant state of wariness, each knock on the office door threatening the General with cruel words, the cloying fear of a court martial, a drumming out; creates imaginings of shame, disgust and mortification painted on the faces of his fellow aides and Continentals.   
  
With such a threat looming over him, Laurens finds his mind spiralling once more, feels as though he trudges through a muddied battlefield of his own failures, each step more difficult than the last, each rising from bed a heavier struggle.  
  
It becomes so that he dares not be even the slightest bit near to Hamilton, for fear another may catch them, may read clear in their expressions or their bodies the care they must feel towards one another, the affection they must harbour.  
  
Though Hamilton appears perhaps not so outwardly restless as Laurens feels himself to be, he sees too the affect this incessant fear should have on his dear boy, for he appears tight-lipped near constantly, face drawn, eyes perpetually darting towards Meade’s spot in their office; no matter the topic being discussed, his replies appear clipped, gaze blank, expression dour and serious.  
  
Hamilton makes out that this due to the frustration of the continually thwarted prisoner exchange, but Laurens thinks that should not be the of it truth at all.  
  
In the aides’ office, they both of them try for desks not beside one another, if only to decrease the likelihood that Meade may witness something seemingly untoward, too affectionate, and thus cause him to snap, report them immediately.  
  
Laurens almost did not realise just how often he should seek casual contact with Hamilton in the office, by hands brushing, fingertips touching, coasting palms over thighs, knees bumping, feet jostling.  
  
Now that they deliberately attempting to stifle such as this, Laurens feels the loss keenly; he may not have even Hamilton’s hand upon his leg, fingernails digging into thigh, to distract his frenzied thoughts from walking darker paths.  
  
He almost wonders whether Hamilton, Meade, this office, this army, this _world_ , may in fact be better off should he cease to exist, as he so contemplated that day on the banks of the icy and unfeeling Schuylkill River.

  
All this be made even worse by Laurens still sharing a _bed_ with Meade, with a man who will not speak to him, with a man who is increasingly careful not to even lightly touch him in sleep. Hamilton should seem a lucky man for him still sharing with Fitzgerald, who remains none the wiser on Meade’s new and troubling knowledge.  
  
Strangely enough, this sleeping situation seems why, finally, Meade should break his silence.  
  
It is a Tuesday, a seemingly regular day, the twenty-fourth of the month, when Laurens wakes to see Meade already up and dressing, but paused in the act of pulling on his stockings, gaze flitting between Laurens and some other place in the cabin.  
  
Laurens sits up blearily, glances around; Tilghman is rubbing sleep from his eyes, Fitzgerald sitting and staring vacantly at the floor (likely partially asleep; he being a man slow to wake), Harrison seemingly still slumbers, and Hamilton is seated atop a barrel, already writing.  
  
“Meade?” queries Tilghman. “Does your stocking offend you so?”  
  
Meade makes some noise of startlement. “I—what—?” he gazes down, resumes his dressing. “Ah, no, Sir.”  
  
Tilghman is reaching for his cravat, tired fingers stumbling over the knots. “An intelligent response; are you sure you do not dress in sleep?”  
  
Oddly, Meade does not grasp the tail of this jest and respond in kind. Instead, he declares abruptly: “I think that I and Hamilton ought to swap beds.”  
  
Laurens freezes in the act of climbing out of the blankets; sees in his peripheral that Hamilton’s quill has ceased moving, his knuckles white around it.  
  
“Why so?” demands Fitzgerald through a yawn, his sleeping arrangements being mentioned summoning him to awareness, it seems. “I should enjoy sharing with Hamilton.”  
  
“Aye,” says Tilghman dryly. “For he hardly ever present to share with.”   
  
“Indeed,” Fitzgerald agrees with a grin. “The perfect bedfellow.”  
  
Laurens feels his fingers dig into the fraying blanket; runs the coarse thread under his nails. Is this how Meade shall reveal them to their friends? Make some jest as to swapping, and then declare why?  
  
He feels he cannot breathe, throat closing up, dim colours in the cabin becoming blurred in his panicked vision.  
  
But Meade only shakes his head. “Tilghman has already suffered my apparently icy feet, and I think perhaps Laurens has withstood such long enough.”  
  
“And that means I should be the target?” Fitzgerald mock glares. “Why not Harrison? Or Hamilton?”  
  
“Harrison is an old man; I would not torture him so.”  
  
Harrison, it seems, should be awake after all. He sits up, mouth falling open. “I am not even the eldest of us!” he protests.  
  
“You would enjoy Meade’s ridiculously cold feet, is that it?” Tilghman asks.  
  
“Ah.” Harrison backtracks. “No, indeed not.”  
  
“Well then.” Tilghman laughs. “I think it your turn Fitzgerald.”  
  
“I concur.” That Hamilton, grip on his quill appearing somewhat more relaxed, now that it seems this is not how Meade shall reveal them.  
  
“You would,” grumbles Fitzgerald. “For it means you shall not suffer them.”  
  
“Well.” Meade grasps his trunk, drags it over to where Hamilton and Fitzgerald share. “Move your things, Hamilton. I come to torture Fitzgerald.”  
  
Hamilton rises swiftly, begins to swap his things; Laurens watches as his eyes seem to dart cautiously to Meade.  
  
Meade ducks his head, appears to whisper some comment in Hamilton’s ear; Hamilton’s face goes rigid as he stalks across to shove his things under the bed Laurens still occupies.  
  
Varied chatter about what work should be required for the day commences around them, as Hamilton sits on the bed, grasps angrily for his boots.  
  
“Why does he do such?” murmurs Laurens, as quiet as he may be without becoming inaudible.  
  
Hamilton’s gaze flicks up briefly, then back to his feet. There is a flush to his cheeks, though Laurens thinks it likely more from indignant rage than any other such thing.  
  
“He says he is sure I may enjoy sharing with you more than he should.”  
  
Laurens glances uneasily at Meade; he does not know whether this a sign he moves towards forgiving their indiscretion, or a sign he means to expose it so.

  
The remainder of the day proceeds in the same manner it has since Meade first witnessed actions he should never have; that is, the aides go about what tasks they have been so assigned, and Meade speaks not once to Laurens, nor Hamilton.  
  
Hamilton, for his part, spends much of the day in consultation with Washington, Harrison, Colonel William Grayson and Elias Boudinot, a lawyer, as Washington has decided that they four shall represent him at the conference he intends to conduct with Howe over exchanging prisoners of war. Congress still appears to hamper what progress they have made with this plan, and they await Howe’s response to this proposal also.  
  
Laurens secretly hopes it shall not go ahead, for he does not wish to have Hamilton sent into the enemy’s camp when they already at so much risk from within their own.  
  
In any case, with Hamilton out of the office for much of the day, and the amount of French translation decreasing with Walker and Du Ponceau’s assistance, Laurens decides he ought to write his father, as well as Lafayette, who he hears may finally be making his return to Valley Forge.  
  
He writes Lafayette first, as he knows this shall be a far easier letter to dictate than any to his father.  
  
Once that done, sealed, and added to the pile of finished dispatches, he turns his attention to the unread papers hidden at the bottom of his correspondence stack.  
  
Most of his father’s letters contain much of the same content they ever have, and so Laurens writs his responses in much the same manner he always has; meaning he says a lot, whilst also saying nothing at all.  
  
There be one letter, however, that causes his stomach to lurch uncomfortably, his face to flush, the paper to shake in his grasp—  
  
His father writes that he encloses a letter from Martha.  
  
Martha Manning Laurens.  
  
His _wife_.  
  
Uneasily, Laurens opens the letter, scans the lines, heart sinking. She wishes to know whether she might make the journey to America to be with her husband.  
  
And that is…that should be—  
_  
Unthinkable_.  
  
It should not be, it should not, and he such a damned man, that he should wish to keep his wife, his _daughter_ —for yes, he must remind himself he has a daughter, his own flesh and blood, created through his own actions—that he should wish to keep his family as far away across the sea as physically possible.  
  
He cannot have them here, he _cannot_ , for he loves Hamilton, and if Hamilton were to find out, if he were to—God, but he feels so trapped, and it his own fault for conducting himself so dishonourably with regards to Martha and a marriage he did not want, and yet still, whilst he knows this through his own doing, he cannot stop how desperate and terrified it should make him feel.  
  
She cannot come to America.  
  
It be entirely out of the question.  
  
And he is such a fool, a disappointment, a destructive force to all around him…perhaps it should be that she would grow to hate him if she came to America’s shores anyhow.  
  
Despite his ardent desire to keep such matters as this personal, some element of his distress must be visible on his face, for an aide (he knows not who, such is his distraction) asks:  
  
“Laurens? Be you…alright?” And a pause.  
  
Laurens attempts to school his expression, places the offending letter under as many others as he can.  
  
He clears his throat.  
  
“I am well—”  
  
And receives a shock; it seems it is Meade who has spoken. He who has avoided any such conversation for nigh a week!  
  
He focuses back down on his desk. “I am fine, Meade.”  
  
He can feel the hefty weight of Meade’s gaze like thickened pitch upon his skin.  
  
“Truly?” Meade seems to shift uncomfortably, as though he, too, is unsure how to interact in the way that were so easy for the both of them just a week ago, and this another regret to add to Laurens’ growing list: the possible destruction of such a friendship as Meade’s.  
  
He presses his lips together. “Aye; truly. I am—I am fine.”  
  
He is not, of course, but in this war, in this life, when should he ever be?  
  
Meade raises his eyebrows, then flicks his eyes surreptitiously to the empty seat beside Fitzgerald, where Hamilton has been working since Laurens and he felt obliged towards separation in the office.  
  
Laurens frowns, shakes his head minutely.  
  
For once, at this particular moment, his array of regrets and fears are _not_ centred around Alexander Hamilton, as odd a rarity as that may be.  
  
Meade only shrugs in response to this denial, looks back at his own work, and Laurens should feel the pain of such a removal that it near makes him feel nauseous.   
  
Even if Meade decides not to report them as sodomites, Laurens fears he will never regain what camaraderie they once shared.  
  
Tilghman, meanwhile, appears to have taken notice of their terse verbal exchange; he has chosen to sit beside Meade this morn, and so this rather inevitable, it seems.  
  
“Have you—?” Tilghman glances between the both of them, eyes wide. “Pardon my asking what should usually appear a ridiculous question, but—have you…quarrelled?”   
  
Laurens, against his will, huffs a wry laugh; that it has apparently taken Tilghman over a week to notice this tension a remarkable testament to Meade’s surprising skills in pretence.  
  
“What?” Tilghman now seems very confused. “I have said something amusing, is that it?”  
  
“Nay,” Laurens manages to choke through increasing laughter; perhaps he borders on hysteria? “You have not, it is just—well. It matters not.”  
  
“Meade?” queries Tilghman, elbowing his desk mate. “What strangeness have I stuck my foot into here?”  
  
Meade only rolls his eyes. “We had a small difference of opinion, that is all.”  
  
Tilghman’s eyebrows fly upwards as though they may soon forsake his forehead in their astonishment. “You and Laurens? A disagreement? Am I hearing such correctly?”  
  
“A _small_ disagreement,” Meade counters.  
_  
Aye_ , thinks Laurens bitterly. _A small disagreement on whether Hamilton and I deserve his mercy or no_.  
  
“Still!” cries Tilghman. “Still! I feel I must note such as this down. First Laurens and Hamilton, now Laurens and Meade; when shall you and I quarrel, Laurens?”  
  
“Or we?” Fitzgerald interjects, eyes dancing with mirth from across the office.  
  
Laurens thinks on what Meade and he truly struggle over, and winces, prays to God that Tilghman may never witness and so quarrel over such a thing. “Never, I should hope, Sirs.”  
  
“Ah, but that is no fun.” Tilghman pulls a ridiculous face, cheeks puffed. “I should feel rather less of a friend if we do not, as Meade and Hamilton your closest acquaintances in this office, I think, and they having quarrelled with you must seem a marker of such.”  
  
“Hamilton and Laurens should certainly be close,” Meade says blandly, and Laurens freezes, feels his nails dig painfully into the wood of the desk.  
  
“As brothers!” Fitzgerald agrees.  
  
Meade snorts, but says nothing in reply to this; does not rebut this egregious statement.  
  
Laurens cannot move his mouth to speak; his tongue feels stuck to his teeth, his lips dry as kindling. Lord, but this stalemate between them should seem unbearable.  
  
“I admit myself surprised for an argument taking place without Hamilton’s provocation.” Tilghman seems to have elected to ignore Meade’s snort, or simply does not care to notice it.  
  
“Aye, that true,” Fitzgerald agrees, winking. “I fear he may feel entirely shunned by such as that having occurred.”  
  
Meade only laughs, but it wears a hardened edge. “You are incorrect in that assumption, Sir; Hamilton also engages in this disagreement.”  
  
“On the side of Laurens or you?” prods Tilghman with a wry grin. “I think I may guess.”  
  
Meade shakes his head, dips his quill in the inkwell. “Mine, of course.”  
  
“Truly?” Tilghman gapes.  
  
Meade rolls his eyes. “Of course not, man.”  
  
“Of course.” Tilghman nods in a jestingly wise manner.  
  
Laurens realises he has not spoken but twice in this conversation, and thinks he may keep it that way, else find himself in more dire circumstances than already created.  
  
Luckily, Hamilton and Harrison blundering into the office with loud stomps and complaints over the wily ways of Congress should distract all enough that the topic of Laurens’ and Meade’s _small disagreement_ be not broached again.

***

The part of the day approaches where candles should be lit, when the shuffles of paper and quiet busyness of the aides’ office be disturbed by a knock at the door. Hamilton has just risen to approach Laurens’ and Harrison’s desk, with some query over specifications for the debate with General Howe’s representatives over this ever-lengthening issue of prisoner exchange.  
  
Harrison is meticulously reading through the pages Hamilton offers, eyes darting over the still drying ink; Hamilton leaning casually against the desk as he waits. His hand also rests on the desk, slim fingers lightly tapping the wood.  
  
Laurens finds himself strangely entranced, hypnotised by the rhythm, his quill stilled on his own page; looks up slightly to realise Hamilton stares at him, a strained and weary expression on his face, eyes saddened, the light in them seeming dimmed.  
  
Laurens sighs, forces his eyes downwards, squeezes them shut a moment. All he really desires is to move his hand an inch over, brush against Hamilton’s fingers, _feel some contact_ , some warmth, some connection.  
  
He near wishes to scream, leap up, yell _Meade saw us, he saw us and we are condemned_ , for then this eternal wait should cease, and he may kiss Hamilton one last time before their ending.  
  
But this liminal space, between redemption and condemnation, this everlasting purgatory, one from which he may not use prayer to escape, nor repentance, this truly…insufferable.  
  
Laurens thinks he may have imagined the touch so vividly that his mind now conjures such a feeling, though it non-existent. Yet, when he opens his eyes, glances over, Hamilton’s fingers are brushing his in the very lightest of motions, fingers splayed as though in spasm. They meet gazes, and Laurens recognises that same desperate suspense reflected back at him through the oceans of Hamilton’s eyes.  
  
He brusquely breaks this meeting, draws back; Harrison having noticed nothing.  
  
Finding the courage to raise his eyeline, however, Laurens immediately meets Meade’s gaze. His mouth is drawn, tight, hands tensed on the desk, his expression pained.  
  
Laurens withdraws both his hands under his own desk, fingers clenched in the fabric of his breeches.  
  
This, then, be when the knock occurs, startling all.  
  
“Greeting, _messieurs_ ,” declares Du Ponceau without preamble.  
  
“Greetings,” corrects Walker softly from beside him; it is they at the door.  
  
Laurens sighs, frowns. This—he should not like Meade to make more guesses than he already has.  
  
Du Ponceau waves a hand, as though waving off Walker’s correction; his English progresses somewhat, but a less proud youth than he may have an easier time of it.  
  
“ _Oui_?” As no one else speaks, Tilghman appears to take it upon himself. “Does the Baron require us?” He gestures at he, Hamilton and Laurens.  
  
Du Ponceau frowns, mouths as though repeating the words. He seems to understand, face lighting up as he does so.  
  
God, but he seems young.  
  
“Ah, _non_.” He pauses, shakes his head. “ _En fait, oui_. _Mais pas pour le travail_.”  
  
Walker lays a hand on Du Ponceau’s shoulder, murmurs something in his ear. Du Ponceau rolls his eyes, but ceases talking.  
  
It seems Walker shall take over, likely as enough aides in this office do not understand French.  
  
“Not for work.” Walker translates the end of Du Ponceau’s statement. “The Baron has decided to host a gathering of sorts, tomorrow eve, and should like to invite all in your office.”  
  
“A gathering?” Harrison shuffles some papers, quirks an eyebrow slightly. “Might I enquire on what this… _gathering_ might entail?”  
  
“Ah—” Walker’s eyes flick to Du Ponceau, and Laurens hopes the ominous feeling that falls over him should be stemming only from how he already feels, and not some new sort of premonition. “A celebration.”  
  
Fitzgerald looks up now, appears confused. “A celebration of what, Sirs? Less snow today than previous?”  
  
Walker shakes his head. “Nay, though that should be some cause for merriment, I think. The Baron wishes to raise spirits a little, now that supply should be under a firmer hand, and conditions begin to improve somewhat.”  
  
“I…see.” Harrison still seems a little baffled; Laurens cannot blame him, for he feels the same.  
  
Hamilton leans up against Harrison and Laurens’ desk again; so close, and yet Laurens may not reach out and touch him, even in a manner of camaraderie, else draw Meade’s eye.  
  
“And how should we celebrate such as that?” Hamilton sounds intrigued; a fair improvement on his tense mood this past week, for which Laurens should be glad, but that he cannot find such a temperament within himself.  
  
Walker’s gaze upon Hamilton feels more… _knowing_ , now that they have become properly revealed amongst the Baron’s circle, but perhaps Laurens grows paranoid with anything and all things. Meade surely shall not notice if Walker bestows a simply familiar _look_ , damn it.  
  
Du Ponceau abruptly grins wide; he has, apparently, caught the gist of the conversation. “ _Sans cullottes_!”  
  
At this exclamation, Tilghman begins to choke on the coffee he has had the misfortune to recently sip. “I am sorry—what, Sir?” he manages to cough.  
  
Laurens exchanges a wary glance with Hamilton; surely Du Ponceau makes some mistake?  
  
Walker is grinning, wickedly almost, which should seem strangely out of place upon his countenance.  
  
“Apologies, Du Ponceau does not explain properly with such.”  
  
“Clearly,” Tilghman wheezes, still suffering under coffee inhalation. “Would you perhaps elaborate?”  
  
“What has he said?” asks Meade, his usual jesting tone present once again in full force. “I should like to know how I might startle Tilghman so.”  
  
“No breeches,” replies Hamilton shortly, and Laurens notices he will not meet Meade’s eye as he says such.  
  
Meade’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “Well.”  
  
“Indeed,” coughs Tilghman.  
  
“Walker, if you would.” Harrison’s tone is insistent. “I think we should certainly require some further clarification than that.”  
  
Walker nods, shuffles awkwardly under Harrison’s stern eye; this should seem rather more in keeping with his character. “Ah, that is—Baron von Steuben thinks to make the gathering themed.”  
  
“Themed?” Meade huffs with what seems amusement. “Do go on, Sir. I find myself fascinated to know.”  
  
Laurens does _not_ find himself fascinated to know; in fact, he rather dreads such themes as the Baron may find amusing by this stage of their acquaintance.   
  
Walker sighs, glances away, does not seem quite able to meet any one man’s eye. “The theme should be that no man may be granted entry who wears a complete pair of breeches.”  
  
Harrison has gone rather flush in the face. “I think I still do not entirely understand what that may entail.”  
  
“No breeches, Harrison!” Meade charges in merrily. “I do not see what should seem so confusing in that.”  
  
“But none—at all?” Harrison’s eyes widen; he appears amusingly childish for once. “Should that not seem…improper?”  
  
“I think that may perhaps be the point,” Fitzgerald grins wryly. “No?”  
  
“Ah—” Walker manages to insert himself back into the conversation. “Not—not _no_ breeches, though you are welcome to interpret it in that manner if you should so wish. Only—torn breeches. Old breeches; dirtied. That sort of—thing.” He trails away; Du Ponceau elbows him with a sly grin, which Walker appears to ignore completely.  
  
“ _Oui_. It for…it for— _nous n'avons pas à nous soucier de l'approvisionnement en vêtements_.”  
  
“We do not need to worry about the clothing supply anymore.” Hamilton, again translating; his eyes seem to begin an ascent towards mirth, though he still avoids Meade’s gaze. “Yes, I see the aim of it.”  
  
Harrison taps his quill against his hand, does not seem to notice the splatters of ink upon his skin. “I am still not entirely sure our office should—”  
  
“Oh, _Old Secretary_.” Tilghman huffs, rolls his eyes. “You were only recently bemoaning how you should not be the eldest of us, and yet you speak in this way! Be merry for once, Sir.”  
  
Hamilton, unusually, rises to Harrison’s defence. “Congress may put any in a sour mood with how they deal on the matter of these prisoners.”  
  
“Aye,” Harrison appears relieved at this agreement. “I apologise. There be much on my mind.”  
  
“Well, then!” Meade grins fiercely; almost _too_ fiercely, as though he means to convince even himself of his genuine mirth. “I think we may be decided.” He turns towards Walker and Du Ponceau.  
  
“Inform the Baron that the men of this office should be delighted to accept his invitation, breeches or no breeches.”  
  
Tilghman chortles quietly, then smirks. “Shall we extend the invitation to His Excellency?”  
  
He receives a stack of papers to the head for his efforts.

***

The entirety of the next day sees the aides bantering around the subject of the Baron’s gathering; quietly, of course, as none are _entirely_ certain that Washington may be aware of such a thing, or that he should approve if he were to be in the know.  
  
Laurens has determined he shall not go.  
  
He has no wish to be around the Baron, nor Du Ponceau and Walker, when Meade already knows of he and Hamilton; aside from not wishing to initiate anymore of such interaction, he should not like to be the one that may give their identical positions away.  
  
If Meade discovers more… _sodomites_ …God only knows whether he shall ere towards the side of protecting his friends or no; he may feel he has no further choice in the matter.  
_  
Damnation_ , but how has Laurens’ allowed himself to he caught up in such? How has he allowed himself to care, to _love_ , in this fashion; it is just…he is just…and _Hamilton_ is just—  
  
He is weak.  
  
He knows this, and yet even having been caught in illicit amorous embrace, he cannot stomach never holding Hamilton again; should clearly suffer greatly for the lack of any affection shared between them this past week.  
  
And that the other reason for his abstaining from this gathering; liquor, Hamilton and he make for a disastrous combination, that has been proved time and time again, with increasingly dire consequences.  
  
The other aides do their best to cajole, and torment, and plead, offering ripped breeches if Laurens should not like to ruin his (though that not the true issue), promises that none shall get too drunk if such should bother him (that also, truly, not an issue, bar perhaps in the case of Hamilton) but he stands firm in his refusal.  
  
That is, until Hamilton manages to corner him in their cabin, when Laurens so enters to retrieve his hat, for he left it there that morn.  
  
Laurens near walks straight into Hamilton, for he makes to exit as Hamilton enters, collides instead with the door frame, swears.  
  
“ _Hamilton_.”  
  
Hamilton grins, though it does not quite meet his eyes; he shoves Laurens back through, closes the door.  
  
Laurens manages a panicked glimpse at the rear of headquarters as it swings shut.  
  
“Hamilton! Does Meade know you follow me here?”  
  
Hamilton only glares. “Aye, I am sure, for his eyes do not leave me be.”  
  
“Then—” Laurens frantically moves for the door knob; Hamilton stands stubbornly in his path. “Hamilton, think what he may suppose, if he knows we here alone—”  
  
Hamilton’s glare only intensifies; he crosses his arms. “He will suppose whatever he wishes, I suspect, and I could not give a damn.”  
  
Laurens steps backwards in shock, blinks; for a moment, words fail to form. “You—Alexander, he could see us hung!”  
  
“Aye,” Hamilton huffs; his glare fades a little. “Aye, he could. But has he? Nay. I think his nerve fails him.”  
  
“We should not provoke it, then.”  
  
“And what?” Hamilton’s volume begins to rise. “We shall live like this, here, but apart? Terrified at all moments Meade may turn us in? I shall not have it.”  
  
Now, Laurens feels his own temper rising to match Hamilton’s ire; he retreats another step back.  
  
“You will not have it? Oh, and what of my wishes? They are as nothing?”  
  
Hamilton inhales sharply. “John, that is not—”  
  
But Laurens’ temper, his restraint, the heavy darkness and suspense and fear, it should all make itself known, here, now, without delay.  
  
“Hamilton, until Meade may make some move towards forgiveness or condemnation, we may do nothing, and as it were _you_ who saw us caught, I should think—” Laurens cuts himself off, dismayed, truly did not mean to lay such blame at Hamilton’s feet, for it not at all true; he should not direct his pent up frustration at him, that not fair, and yet—  
  
Hamilton’s face drains to white, stark in contrast with his fiery hair. He steps back, expression slack, eyes wide.  
  
“ _Jack_ —”  
  
Laurens feels his eyes widen, knows he himself must drain of colour also. “No, I did not—”  
  
“No, no.” Hamilton shakes his head, presses his lips together. “No, you are quite correct, I should think. I were uncareful, for I only wanted you, and love should make me rash—”  
  
“Alexander!” Laurens frowns again. “You may not use your love as an excuse, else neither of us should perform any sensible action ever again!”  
  
Hamilton reaches a hand out helplessly, jerkily, drops it to his side. “I am sorry; it seems it only _my_ desire at fault, is that it? You would say you had none to do with it?” His tone stretches into ugly sarcasm.  
  
“No—” Laurens fears his words be escaping all wrong, tangled in his upset and dismay. “I most certainly also were at fault; I only say that we may not blame our actions entirely on _love_ nor _desire_ else what, we have no freedom of choice here? We may not control our own impulses?”  
  
Hamilton’s face has regained some colour, anger seeming to seep away as quick as it made its appearance. “With how I should lust for you, sometimes it may feel I do not have free will on the matter, no.”  
  
Laurens knows this to be a jest, he does, he knows, and he knows Hamilton means no harm with such words, only affection, a compliment, but these words, they echo words so spoken to him by another, another who would not declare care for him but to use him for desire, and suddenly he be there, in that moment, not here, and all things should press against his mind; he sees not Hamilton, but another, and—  
  
“ _Damn it, Francis, but I am not just some throwaway thing to be toyed with!_ ”  
  
Such an awful, terrible memory; it presses outwards, falls from Laurens’ lips, tone ugly and harsh, grates against his tongue.  
  
There is a ringing silence.  
  
Laurens stands still, noise and image coalesced into one, and then there is just Hamilton, _his Hamilton_ , wearing a fearful, broken expression upon his face, eyes locked devastatingly upon him.  
  
“Francis?”  
_  
God, no_.  
  
To hear any other speak that name, that name he should suppress with all anguish, buried under the sorry memories of Europe, and to hear it particularly from Hamilton lip’s—  
  
Hamilton leans away from Laurens. “And here, I so thought…” He trails away, eyes dimming.  
  
Laurens feels terror rise up; he cannot let such as this from his past poison what should already be so threatened. “Hamilton, wait, you must let me explain, I only—”  
  
Hamilton just gazes persistently at the floor. “I apologise for the manner in which Meade so caught us, and also on presuming you should be so ill-affected as I by this absence between us.”  
  
Laurens squeezes his eyes shut. “Alexander, my dear boy, stop, that is not at all—Cease deliberately seeking to misunderstand me! I were also at fault, and I only mean to remain cautious until such time—”  
  
Hamilton throws a hand up, sharp, halting. “Aye, until such time as Meade may judge us one way or the other, which may seem never, but I see now—”  
  
“You see what?” Laurens stares, heart racing. “You see _what_ , Alexander? What foolish thing have you decided you so see?”   
  
“That perhaps you are not so singularly attached to me, as I to you.”  
  
“What—?” Laurens cannot form coherent thought; he is lost to a feeling of falling, where the depth of such should appear never-ending. “ _What_? No! That should be utterly foolish, untrue…Have you not heard me when I say I love you so, when I tell you I have never cared for another as I care for you, did you not—”  
  
“I have never heard you speak of this Francis before; why so, if he should be as nothing to you?”  
  
Laurens sighs, desperate to find proper explanation; he has not Hamilton’s cleverness with words and this failing should _not_ be what drives some new rift!  
  
“That is not why I have not…God, Alexander, I should never want to speak of him again! Ever!”  
  
Hamilton only raises his chin. “I think it just as well you refuse to attend the Baron’s gathering.”  
  
Laurens flails, wonders if perhaps he did indeed sink under the ice of the Schuylkill, has, in actuality, entered some scene of eternal damnation; he be completely blindsided by this sudden change in subject.  
  
“I—you—pardon?”  
  
Hamilton smirks, but it cold, and dangerous, and unhappy; seems all points, and edges, and sharpened teeth. “If you were to attend, you may find my eyes should wander.”  
  
Laurens breathes in quick, with pain. “Hamilton, please, I ought to have told you, perhaps, but truly, there is not—”  
  
“Perhaps I may write Miss Schuyler.” Hamilton interrupts, spiteful and cold; the fire in his eyes that should swallow Laurens with its passions now seems turned against him with all its menace.  
  
“I—General Schuyler’s daughter?”  
  
“Aye. The one you named _marriageable_.”  
  
“May I ask—why?”  
  
“She asked if I might write her upon our brief meeting in Albany; so far I have declined to, but perhaps I shall.”  
  
“You did not say—?”  
  
“No, but it seems I am not the only one of us who may keep secrets.”  
  
“Alexander,” tries Laurens. “ _Please_. We be already driven apart by this mess with Meade, please do not—”  
  
But Hamilton, stubborn, and prideful, and brilliant, and damning, only turns towards the door. “I think I may attempt to imbibe so much at this gathering that I should forget any mention of any Francis.”  
  
Laurens only watches him leave the cabin as though through some heavy fog, like that which shrouded them at Brandywine, Germantown; feels frozen in time, memories of one man superseded by those of another, clouding what he and Hamilton should have, should be, intermixed with the knowledge he has not yet even informed Hamilton of his wife, his daughter, and all of that overshadowed by the look of absolute horror upon Meade’s face, and he cannot bear to let this lie, Meade be damned.  
  
He shall be finding his most raggedy breeches and attending this ridiculous gathering whether Hamilton should wish it or no.

  
This does, eventually, present itself as a rather rash decision, for truly Laurens does not at all feel as though an evening amongst those that share the Baron’s company should improve his mood, particularly with Meade so cold, and Hamilton so fractious; it seems he has been impaled on the bayonet of his own recklessness once again.  
  
But there nothing for it now, as he so informs the other aides that he shall attend after all, once he returns to the office; feigns that he cannot take any further needling on the part of Tilghman, and so has caved.  
  
Hamilton does not look at him once; Meade flicks eyes to him many times, but each time Laurens thinks to look up from his work, Meade should pretend otherwise.  
  
Laurens thinks he may break and challenge the both of them to some duel, if simply firing his pistol at them would not achieve a quicker result.  
  
Luckily, he finds his recklessly self-destructive nature not _quite_ so destructive as that. Yet.  
  
By noon, however, Laurens thinks perhaps this recklessness shall take over soon, for he cannot _stand this_.  
  
It is ridiculous, and terrible, on both fronts. It cannot be that Meade’s discovering their affections should lead to their ending them of their own accord! Laurens should rather be condemned than that; knows that if he cannot love Hamilton, he will not love any other.  
  
He continually fights to push one thought to the deepest recesses of his mind:  
_  
And what about after this war? What should happen then?  
_  
  
It should seem some sort of salvation that Laurens and Tilghman be assigned to ride out and survey the furthest areas of camp with the General that afternoon, as Hamilton and Harrison continue their work for the approaching prisoner exchange; Fitzgerald and Meade attending to other tasks.  
  
They ride in silence a fair while, only pausing to take note of any and all things the General might wish.  
  
Whilst it true that conditions in camp continue to improve, Laurens still observes many men that do not possess proper boots, nor proper coats, particularly amongst the enlisted ranks. He and Tilghman add this to the reports they begin collating, the General’s expression seeming rather dour about the mouth as he takes all such in.  
  
Soon enough, Laurens begins to notice that Tilghman should keep gazing upon him, before pretending he does not, in much the same matter as Meade should, and _oh God_ , surely Meade has not—  
  
“Tilghman,” Laurens finally finds the courage to speak, directs his horse closer. “You seem to be glancing at me as though I may explode in the manner of a cannon any moment hence.”  
  
Tilghman winces, appears chastened. “Apologies.” He grins slightly. “I do not fear you may explode as a cannon might.”  
  
Laurens casts a careful glance forward; it seems Washington should be far enough ahead he may not hear their conversation. “Then what is your concern, Sir?”  
  
Tilghman sags slightly in the saddle. “I—truly, I do not mean to pry, Laurens. I only—we are all friends, I should hope, but this past week there seems some persistent tension between Hamilton, Meade, and yourself.”  
  
“I did not suppose you had noticed,” Laurens murmurs; honestly, he had not, until Tilghman so queried this morn.  
  
“Hmm.” Tilghman sighs. “As I said; I do not like to pry. That not the same as remaining in ignorance.”  
  
“Ah.” Laurens grimaces; perhaps he has done a disservice to Tilghman’s friendship, here. “Then it is I who must apologise; we ought not to let our petty disagreements disrupt our work.”  
  
Tilghman makes a face. “That is not—whilst true, that is not why I query. I only wish to know if I may…assist in finding some resolution.”  
  
Laurens abruptly stops his horse; it takes Tilghman a moment to realise, before he also halts.  
  
It seems Laurens has misjudged Tilghman’s intentions indeed.  
  
“Do not misunderstand and think I mean such as an attempt to prise this argument from you,” Tilghman hastens to explain, perhaps believing that Laurens should be angered by this. “I only wish to know whether I might have quiet words with whomever may be in the wrong, here.”  
  
Laurens finds himself smiling sadly. “I think you may find such a task difficult, for there are none in the wrong, exactly, only the wrong place.”  
  
Tilghman seems to mull over this strangeness for a minute. “I simply do not like to see you all so unhappy; for that be something I _can_ read clear. Even Hamilton appears to have grown quiet; a sure sign something should be amiss.”  
  
Laurens manages a small laugh. “Aye. That should be true.”  
  
Tilghman does not speak a moment; only gazes after the General, who has stopped to talk to some officer from astride his horse. “Do you think it shall be resolved soon, then?”  
  
Laurens blinks. Does he? Truly? “I should sincerely hope so.”  
  
Tilghman flicks his reins; begins to move his horse on. “I think I should require something better than hope.”  
  
Laurens remains still a moment longer. If it cannot be resolved, perhaps he ought to make inquiries about where else in this war he may be considered useful.

  
Finally, with all the dread of a thousand schoolboy lessons approaching at once, the Baron’s _sans cullottes_ gathering gallops over the horizon of the evening.  
  
None of the aides have elected to attend completely absent of breeches; a fact Laurens should be immensely grateful for (though Hamilton tries his best, all the while casting scathing glances at Laurens, Harrison shall not have it).  
  
Rather awkwardly, they encounter the General on their way out of headquarters; Harrison cannot create words beyond stuttering, so it should be left to Tilghman to explain where they be headed dressed in such a disorderly fashion.  
  
The General only raises his eyebrows as high as Laurens has ever seen them, and sternly instructs his aides that their behaviour remain proper to their stations, as though they a gaggle of rambunctious youths.  
  
Though, Laurens thinks with a sigh, that be not particularly far from the truth.  
  
When they reach Baron von Steuben’s headquarters, laughter and inebriated chattering can already be heard spilling from beneath windows and door frames.  
  
Laurens grits his teeth.  
  
Du Ponceau greets them at the door; makes a show of ensuring all be attired as instructed. He lingers over Laurens’ barely torn attempt, raises an eyebrow.  
  
“ _Je pense que tu n'es déshabillé que par une personne_ , _oui_?” he mutters into Laurens’ ear.  
  
Laurens flinches backwards, casts an uneasy glance around him, but it appears none others be listening.  
  
“ _Tais-toi_ ,” he hisses. “ _Mon Dieu_.” He cannot warn Du Ponceau of how careful they must truly be, now, with Meade knowing what he does; though likely the Frenchman may think that Meade’s lack of French should pose no threat to them anyhow.  
  
As Laurens be delayed by Du Ponceau’s teasing insinuations, the other aides have already scattered into the various sections of the Baron’s headquarters; Laurens should not know where Hamilton has gone to, and begins to think he may not care.  
  
He be so _tired_.  
  
He joined this war to fight for a nation’s freedom, and the freedom of its peoples—all its peoples. He should feel so dismayed that neither of these battles seems to progress, left to the actions of a few men who prize power over true ideals.  
  
He did not anticipate having to fight so hard for who he is, and what he is, nor for the whims of his sinful heart.  
  
These intrusive musings be interrupted by Walker appearing over his shoulder, attired in breeches that truly seem more hole than fabric.  
  
Laurens averts his gaze; feels his cheek’s begin their tell-tale reddening.  
  
“Laurens!” Walker grins, offers some glass of liquor; Laurens takes it, for he has no other thing he may do. “You must try this!”  
  
Laurens stares sceptically at the glass. “Dare I ask why?”  
  
Walker only grins wider, seeming perhaps already somewhat inebriated, beckons Laurens into that sitting room whence the Baron so revealed what he knew of he and Hamilton.  
  
With no other option seemingly available to him, Laurens sighs again, and follows Walker.  
  
Baron von Steuben, it appears, is stationed in this room; he welcomes Laurens loudly, in German, so Laurens may only smile politely. With relief, he realises Tilghman here also, crosses the room quickly to stand beside him as the Baron exuberantly demonstrates a drink which Walker names a _flaming salamander_ , where the liquor be set alight before consumption.  
  
  
As the evening drags onwards, Laurens finds himself more often than not lingering near the walls, watching as the other officers, men he knows, men he does not, mingle and flow through the rooms; cheeks flushed with drink, coats discarded, cravats askew. Music and conversations and drunken shouts begin to blend into one discordant symphony; flaming salamanders set cheering men’s queue ends alight, the flickering of the flames and candlelight bleeding into darkened corners, corners that hide men such as Walker, and some Lieutenant he introduces briefly as William North.  
  
They linger on the edges of Laurens’ vision, which begins to pulse in and out, as the drinks he swore he would not have begin to take their inevitable toll.  
  
He feels both light and weighty; finds his legs stumble as he moves, crashes against Tilghman, who should only laugh good naturedly, rib some jest into Laurens’ ear, be carried away again by the sea of moving bodies.  
  
And yet not once, _not once_ , does Laurens see Hamilton; the very man whose stubborn stupidity brought him into this gathering.  
  
He ought to worry, perhaps, on what destructive thing Hamilton may be attempting, but his drink-addled mind cannot seem to summon up much care, as though he has done _so_ _much_ caring and fearing and wanting these last few weeks that this well of emotion should have run quite dry.  
  
It be not quite the same as that awful numbness, but it be not be so different either.

  
It should surely be heading towards the small hours of the morn, when Laurens finally manages to stumble out of this room that traps him— _how much liquor has he allowed himself to consume?—_ instead ends up in the office, where desks be pushed against walls, and half-dressed Captains sway unsteadily to some drinking song, and truly, is this _not_ damnation?  
  
Aye, and if this damnation, there too should be Hamilton, for why not? Why should he not also be here, if this Hell?  
  
And Hamilton is…well. He appears, at least through Laurens’ flawed senses, to be speaking to some French Lieutenant, according to his recognition of the man’s particular uniform.  
_  
Speaking_ , however, should be too kind a word; Hamilton stands so close to the man, the man’s hand brushing against the tattered thigh of his breeches. Hamilton appears to whisper some jesting thing in the man’s ear, for he laughs, leans a little closer, and _God_ , but it hurts.  
  
It hurts in some core part of Laurens’ soul, an ache way down that he cannot reach; it hurts worse, in fact, than if Hamilton should have seen him and done such deliberately to provoke, but _this_.  
  
Hamilton does not know where Laurens should be, does not care, flirts in this manner purely because he may, because he can, because he feels spiteful and rash.  
  
And then Hamilton looks up, gaze clear and bright across the dim space; Laurens must be drunk indeed, for it feels as though this gaze has set his limbs aflame.  
  
Their gazes meet; a split second of awful recognition. Hamilton’s eyes widen in the manner of one who knows he has been caught, and, _oh_ —  
  
That.  
_  
That_ _hurts_.  
  
Laurens spins on his heel, stumbles first for the front door, spies Du Ponceau, cannot face the smug youth’s face in this temper; instead heads for the staircase, blindly trips upwards, shoves through the first door he may see, slams it shut.  
  
It appears a bedroom of some sort, lit by a single candle.  
  
Laurens leans against the hard pine of the door; it be cold to touch, icy against his flushed cheeks.  
  
_Damn Meade, damn Hamilton, damn von Steuben and Congress and this war_.  
  
And damn himself.  
  
Laurens pushes away from the door; stumbles towards the bed. He knows not whose it is, might take some perverse pleasure in knowing he messes up the Baron’s immaculate sheets.  
  
It be a bed with a canopy; a soft, indulgent thing Laurens’ realises he has all but forgotten the feel of.  
  
He lies staring up at the darkened swathe of material, arms stretched above his head, pretends it the night sky, cares not when he hears the bedroom door creak open and shut sometime later.  
  
“Laurens?” he hears cautiously.  
  
He does not deign to respond.  
  
Footsteps creak closer, surprisingly steady; the intruder is not so drunk as that after all.  
  
A shadow falls over him, blocking the candlelight.  
  
“John?”  
  
Laurens closes his eyes.  
_  
Hamilton_.  
  
The bed dips ever so slightly; Hamilton must have sat down.  
  
“Laurens?” A hesitant hand rests upon his stomach, cold on the skin exposed by his risen and untucked shirt.  
  
He realises he has left his coat elsewhere.  
  
Laurens still does not open his eyes. “Hamilton.” His voice is hoarse, slightly slurred, but he has enough command over his words that perhaps he has sobered some small amount.  
  
Hamilton clears his throat, sounds nervous. His fingers twitch against Laurens’ skin. “I am—sorry.”  
  
“Hmm.” Laurens opens his eyes, but turns his head away. “Sorry that you flirt with another after accusing me of the same such thing, or sorry that you were caught in this manner?”  
  
The fingers shudder. “Sorry that I were so cruel at all.”  
  
Laurens sighs, closes his eyes again. “Are you though? Truly?”  
  
The fingers withdraw. Laurens misses them dearly.  
  
“I—” Hamilton’s voice shakes. “Of course, my dear Jack. It were some foolish ploy—to make you jealous, I think.”  
  
Slowly, carefully, cautiously, Laurens turns his face towards where Hamilton bends over him. He worries that he may forgive Hamilton anything; worries what this may do to him, but cannot stop.  
  
“Then you are a foolish, foolish man, Alexander.”  
  
Hamilton huffs. “I think I see that clear.”  
  
Laurens reaches an unsteady hand up, rests it against Hamilton’s neck. “There is none other than you, my dear boy, and there shall _be_ none other. Francis—” He shudders with remembrance of dark memories. “He is—past. And he were not…I did think, but I know, now…I have never loved another as I love you.”  
  
Hamilton’s face creases; he swallows. “Meade is—”  
  
“Ah, Meade.” Laurens lowers his hand. “Aye. Well. There appears very little we may do except await his judgement.”  
  
“Wait,” says Hamilton miserably. “I am not much good at such as that.”  
  
Laurens smiles softly. His head feel as though it thrums with some strange obscuring noise, but within that noise, there are words he knows he must say.  
  
“Nay. You are not. But…it shall be resolved. Some way or another.”  
  
The fingers have returned, stroking soft, soothing patterns against Laurens’ drink-flushed skin.  
  
“Laurens…” Hamilton sighs. “Jack. I truly did not mean to seem as though I would so disregard your wishes, for that wrong. I only—I feared that Meade’s…knowing may remind you of the consequences this holds. For you did say, when first we begun, that if it should become too much a risk, we—”  
  
Laurens grasps the fingers on his stomach; stills them, presses them flat against his navel. “Hush. I know what I so said. Do you not remember what I have said since?”  
  
Hamilton smiles very lightly, eyes twinkling with that characteristic mischief that has much lacked since their discovery. “Aye,” he replies quietly.  
  
“Aye,” says Laurens, tastes this word. “Aye.” He rolls the syllables over his tongue. “Aye. And I do not retract such.”  
  
“John—”  
  
“ _Tais-toi_.”  
  
Some intoxicating feeling rolls over him, sets each separate part of his skin alight, hairs raising, heart racing. Laurens knows not where this feeling comes from, knows not when he so suddenly grasped with a momentous flash how Hamilton should sometimes feel when beholding him.  
  
But _oh_ , does he now understand, as if a thunderclap resounds across his mind, limbs lit with fire, heated blood surging.  
  
He gasps, reaches upwards, winds fingers into Hamilton’s hair. Tugs hard, rough, forces their lips into meeting. He feel Hamilton’s hands land upon his thighs to brace himself as he falls forward, fingers digging into the tears of his breeches.  
  
Hamilton makes some strangled laugh against Laurens’ lips, extracts himself from the kiss, pulls back so their mouths no longer meet, but their breaths still mingle.  
  
“John—” he laughs sharply, eyes wide and darkened. “You are—are you… _drunk_?”  
  
Laurens stops. Stares a moment. Huffs a laugh in turn. “Do you know, I think I may be.”  
  
Incredulity spreads across Hamilton’s face. “But you—did you not just lecture me for this same such thing? Why do you think I have abstained this eve?”  
  
Laurens blinks. “I did not think you would. And I—I wished to spite you.”  
  
Hamilton raises a hand, brushes it lightly against Laurens’ cheek. “My God, but we make for a foolish pair.”  
  
Laurens cannot disagree with that, only kisses Hamilton again instead.  
  
Hamilton allows this for a moment, but then pulls back. “I see I must wear the voice of reason this once, as unusual as that should be. We are in what I think to be the Baron’s room, Jack. There be men everywhere.” He pauses. “And you are…somewhat inebriated.”  
  
Laurens frowns. Aye, this does seem true. “Perhaps we ought to retire.”  
  
Hamilton nods. “I think that may be wise indeed.”  
  
  
After managing to somehow make their unsteady way downstairs, and farewell the Baron (at least, Laurens thinks they do; he be not quite sure what the Baron replies, but his expression seems creased with innuendo), Hamilton and he make their way through the night to their cabin, having miraculously relocated Laurens’ coat.  
  
To their surprise (or perhaps, not so much surprise after all) they be the first aides returned; it should seem a miracle if the General may operate a functioning office come morn, which be surely not too many hours hence.  
  
Laurens thinks the liquor begins to wear off; he has not had so very much, truly, just enough that he should feel somewhat removed.  
  
He and Hamilton strip to breeches and shirts with haste, nothing being attempted; though there be some resolution of their differences of yesterday, there appears still some persistent tension.  
  
Or perhaps Laurens imagines this, as he knows himself to, even now, not have revealed all such important things from his past—his present, in fact, for his daughter not some memory, but a constant.  
  
They settle into the bed they now share, keeping proper distance between them as they face one another, eyes closed, but under the blankets, their legs twine, their hands clasp.  
  
The door opens.  
  
Laurens, as his back not towards the door, opens his eyes.  
  
Meade.  
  
Meade wearily hangs up his hat, his coat, stumbles to his bed; he seems not drunk, only tired.  
  
His gaze suddenly snaps to Laurens and Hamilton; Hamilton also now with eyes wide, wary.  
  
“Gentlemen,” Meade says quietly, stiffly, face tense in the light of their one candle.  
  
Hamilton sits up slightly, leaning over Laurens. “Did you enjoy the gathering, Sir?” His tone seems deliberately pointed.  
  
“Hamilton—” murmurs Laurens.  
  
Hamilton glances down; Laurens visibly notices the softening in his face, his expression, as their eyes meet.  
  
They both glance upwards simultaneously to realise Meade’s gaze fixed upon them.  
  
“My _God_. Honestly, I do not know how none has found you out afore this.”  
  
The silence that falls be extremely tense. Meade has not addressed them on this yet; must right now _really_ be the time he decides? The moment he so reveals their fate?  
  
Laurens exchanges a glance with Hamilton.  
  
“What should you mean by _that_?” Laurens whispers uneasily.  
  
Meade sits down heavily upon his bed. “You—one look shared between you should seem to reveal all.”  
  
“Only as you already know,” Hamilton snaps. “One look did not seem enough for you until you so saw us.”  
  
Meade makes a face. “Aye, I suppose that true.” He frowns.  
  
Laurens does not wish to speak, does not wish to _move_ , for Meade’s face grows contemplative, pensive, and he would not disturb it.  
  
Hamilton, as ever, appears to have no such qualms. “Have you yet made some judgement, Sir, or do you mean to prolong our torment?”  
  
Instead of answering this, Meade only fixes a stern gaze upon Hamilton. “Am I truly the first man here to have figured out some such thing between you?”  
  
Hamilton’s hand in Laurens’, under the covers, squeezes tight. “Perhaps…not.”  
  
“ _Alexander_ ,” hisses Laurens. He would not have them reveal their confidences! Not least for the Baron and his men being in the same fragile position.  
  
Hamilton flicks eyes towards him. “He may feel reassured to realise another should know, but not condemn us.”  
  
Meade’s eyes widen. “Another—another of us _does_ know? And has said nothing? I did not truly think—”   
  
“Ah,” says Hamilton blankly, as though he does not deliver some shattering revelation upon Meade’s countenance. “Lafayette—knows.”  
  
Ah, indeed.  
  
It seems Hamilton shall not reveal the others that share their crimes; this wise, Laurens thinks.  
  
Meade’s eyes widen further, if that even possible. “ _Lafayette_ knows.” he says flatly. “Lafayette—knows. A _Major General_ in our army…knows that you have committed sodomy?”  
  
Laurens shifts uneasily. When Meade should put it as that… “Aye.”  
  
“God,” Meade says, smacks his hand against the bedframe. “God.”  
  
“I think he should have very little to do with this.” Hamilton tries with a jest, tension clear in his voice.  
  
Such does not go over well.  
  
“Do not try to joke on this!” Meade hisses. “Do not!” He turns his head from them, gestures angrily, hands thrown up. “And the Marquis has truly yet said _nothing_?”  
  
Laurens clears his throat. “He—ah. Hmm.” He grimaces. “He should seem…not overly bothered by it.”  
  
Meade raises his eyebrows. “I think I may take that to mean he encourages this?” The frustrated disbelief in his tone makes Laurens wish to dive under his sheets, as a small boy might.  
  
“Ah—“ Hamilton attempts to speak again. “Not—exactly, no. I would not say he—“ Again, Laurens and he exchange glances, but Laurens knows not how to assist any further. “He...”  
  
“Spit it out, Hamilton!” Meade glares.  
  
Hamilton crosses his arms. “He knows of it, aye, but he has also told us how dangerous what we undertake should be, and made clear he cannot help us should others find out.”  
  
“He will not defend you?” Meade sounds both sceptical and pleading.  
  
Laurens sighs; perhaps he should not speak on this, but he does not feel Lafayette should like his feelings on the matter being so misrepresented. “I think he would; he only means that should we be caught by certain...people, there may be little he can do.”  
  
“He teases us.” Hamilton bursts out, harsh, irritated. “Honestly, Meade, I think he supposes it rather sweet; he has said we remind him of him and his wife.”  
  
Meade shakes his head rapidly, seems to give up somewhat. “He...teases you? Like a friend might tease a bachelor of the woman he fancies? _Damnation_!” He shakes his head more insistently. “I suppose he found out when you were ill, Hammie, and you were all three in that room all night.”  
  
Laurens winces. “That is—no. He first informed me of what he had so guessed of us when Hamilton were in Albany, but he…has known, I think, since Brandywine.”  
  
Meade’s eyes near bulge out his face. “You mean to tell me that you two _fools_ have been carrying out this tryst since _Brandywine_? Goddamnit! That be what, five, six months? _Lord have mercy_.”  
  
Neither Hamilton nor Laurens say anything, for Meade’s countenance appears to announce him in absolute crisis, and Laurens should not like to incite.  
  
“Dear God,” Meade stands, steps closer to them, face white under the yellow candlelight. “Before Schuylkill, when I walked in, and Laurens, you had fallen—“  
  
Hamilton gazes at him coldly. “Aye. You very nearly caught us engaged in some such behaviour.”  
  
“Christ!” Meade is clearly now even further shocked. “And to think—“  
  
“What?” asks Laurens, finally finds his tongue should work again.  
  
Meade sighs, suddenly slumps. “Tilghman jests on it, your know. Your friendship. Crude jokes, when you in the garret; unnecessary, of course. We all knew them a stupidity; it should all be in good fun. Harrison should always scold him. But now!” His eyes widen. “Oh god, do not tell me you were—“  
  
Hamilton quirks a grin, but it is hard, and angered, and Laurens thinks he might stop him before he says something irredeemable, but—“We were fucking in the garret, aye.”  
  
“ _Hamilton_!” objects Laurens loudly, wrenches his hand from his under the blankets, know his face to be bright red, eyes smarting at the crudity, the humiliation of it all.  
  
“What?” snaps Hamilton. “That is what he asks, is it not? It is not as though we can deny it now, for he saw well enough before.”  
  
There is a strange pause, as Meade regards them, an odd look on his face. He does not respond to Hamilton’s clear deliberate provocation; only sits down upon his bed again, eyes flicking between them, countenance seeming troubled.  
  
“I must ask—can I ask—?”  
  
“Aye?” Laurens says, finds his gaze fixated upon Meade. He sits up; Hamilton does the same, blankets pooled over their knees.  
  
“Why should you do it?”  
  
Laurens flicks his gaze to Hamilton, then back to Meade. “I—Pardon?”  
  
“Why,” says Meade, each word enunciated carefully, “Should you do it?”  
  
Laurens feels Hamilton reach out slightly and take his hand; Meade’s eyes notice, seeming glued to their interlocked fingers.  
  
“You mean,” Hamilton begins softly. “Why do we risk such?”  
  
Meade nods sharply. “There are...women, about camp, if you so have the urge—“  
  
“No,” interrupts Hamilton sharply. “It be not about lusts or urges, Meade.”  
  
And Lord, though this some awful situation, to hear Hamilton confirm that so ardently, Laurens should feel so relieved as for it to be near ridiculous.  
  
Strangely, at Hamilton’s words, Meade’s face softens; he seems to almost beg them to make him understand their predicament.  
  
“No?” Meade finally replies, voice very soft, quiet. “If not for that, then what?”  
  
Laurens feels Hamilton squeeze his hand again; he glances at him and their eyes meet, Hamilton’s full of fear, but also care, and want, and belief. Laurens cannot tear his gaze away.  
  
Hamilton appears to take a shuddering breath.  
  
“I find myself in love with Laurens, that is why.”  
  
“And I with he,” Laurens admits hoarsely, eyes still locked, terrified to confess this to any other man.  
  
Hamilton smiles sadly, leans a little closer, their shoulders brushing.  
  
Meade suddenly lets out a shaky breath, and they spring backwards, shove to opposite sides of the bed, abruptly remembering him here.  
  
“Oh Lord, damnation, Christ Almighty, and any other such curse you may know.” Meade threads his fingers through his hair, pinches his nose, drops elbows to knees. “You damned fools,” he says, with no small amount of frustrated sympathy. “After Enslin, and such talk of that strange sinful love, of men that may love other men instead of women, I wondered on that truth, but I never put much stock in such as that—well.” He sighs heavily.  
  
Laurens stares, blinks.  
  
It cannot be, but—  
  
Is this it? Will Meade not turn them in after all? Has he somehow, miraculously, reached some conclusion where he may live with this knowledge and not condemn their tainted souls?  
  
Meade turns face away again, runs a shaking hand over his hair, dislodges his usually neat queue. “I think I—I cannot pretend I understand this, because I truly do not. But I can see—“ he glances back towards them, eyes bleak. “I have thought long over this week, watched you, wondered, searched my own convictions. And I find that I—I can see when you look at one another an echo of how I should have looked at my wife, and she at me.”  
  
Laurens finds he can barely breathe.  
  
“And she is dead,” Meade continues, “And I do not think I told her enough when she were alive just how dearly I loved her.”  
  
“I am sorry,” Hamilton whispers. “I did not know.”  
  
“No,” says Meade quietly. “You did not.”  
  
Laurens knows, he does, and he is sorry for it; he is sorry for this violent, awful world they live in, where even when your love be so allowed, it may still always end in tragedy.  
  
After some such quiet pause, where Laurens thinks he may cease living simply because his heart cannot find proper rhythm, Meade should speak again.  
  
“I think,” he finally says softly. “That I would be a poor friend if I turned you in to the General, and I should not like to be that.” He shrugs helplessly. “I think there be little enough care in this world as it is; I should not like to hang a man for caring, even where the law says he should not.”  
  
“Meade—“ breathes out Hamilton; Laurens himself cannot find the air to form words.  
  
“But,” warns Meade, cuts Hamilton off. “In the spirit of our dear Marquis: I must warn that if others discover this, I cannot save you, else tarnish my own name.”  
  
“Aye,” says Hamilton, at the same time Laurens finds breathe for: “ _Thank you_.”  
  
Meade only huffs sadly, climbs under his own blankets. “Please do not thank me, Laurens; I should not like to be thanked when this ends in flames and I am left wishing I never knew such existed.”  
  
With such dismal words, Meade lies down, turns over, back towards them. He glances over his shoulder only once as he draws the blankets to his chin.  
  
“Please,” he murmurs. “Be discreet. I have no wish to see you hanging broken necked from the gallows.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, guys. *this chapter*. As Meade said, lord have mercy. I finished it this morning with half a brain, so apologies if there are any terrible mistakes. 
> 
> Some lil notes:  
> For the purposes of this fic, I’ve made Laurens’ past with Francis Kinloch a tad bitterer/sadder than it may actually have been in real life (from what we can tell from their letters anyhow). I plead artistic license on that front, forgive me! However, if you have never read their letters, I *highly* recommend it. Laurens gets incredibly salty in them and it is both amusing, and very sad. 
> 
> I also do not think it's very likely Eliza would have requested Hamilton write to her yet (they had met once by now, but don't meet properly until 1780). Artistic license again, or maybe just Hamilton being a shit who wants to provoke jealousy. You decide lmao.
> 
> idk if the Baron's parties were as *wild* as I made out or not but like, seems fun this way!
> 
> Also: whilst I did (somehow) manage to churn this chapter out in a week, my next few weeks are only getting busier, so I can’t promise the updating schedule will stay consistent. But I will try!
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! <3 I appreciate you all a lot :)
> 
> Dodgy French translations:  
> -En fait, oui. Mais pas pour le travail: Actually, yes. But not for work.  
> -Sans cullottes!: No pants!  
> -Tais-toi: shut up  
> -Je pense que tu n'es déshabillé que par une personne: I think you are only undressed by one person


	17. Of Talks and Treaties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, hope you’re well, and yes, I am a day late, hello! 
> 
> It’s been a ~stressful~ week, and I’ll be dropping an update on my posting schedule in the end notes (dw, no hiatus lol)
> 
> I only had time for a quick edit on this one, so apologies if there are any terrible errors, I’ll get to them eventually!
> 
> Also, just a gentle reminder that we are in the 18th century and to mind the tags; there are some period typical attitudes surrounding women, and also sexuality, very briefly popping up in this chapter :))

_Winter Encampment  
Valley Forge  
March 29th – May 2nd 1778_

It is strange, this knowing of Meade.   
  
Though he promises he has no wish to turn them in, no wish to watch them hang, Laurens still cannot shake that feeling of wariness.   
  
Counting all the Baron’s circle, including, perhaps, Lieutenant William North—who seems to spend increasingly suspicious amounts of time in Walker’s company—Meade, and Lafayette, Laurens may no longer use just the fingers of one hand to count how many may know of his and Hamilton’s secret affections.   
  
And that he should not like at all.   
  
The more who may learn of this, the more who may expose them, inadvertently or no.   
  
Meade also, it should seem, still does not appear entirely comfortable with his own knowing, despite what he may say of ensuring his discretion. Laurens notices Meade’s eyes upon he and Hamilton in the office, watching them often, gaze catching at any small move they may make towards one another.   
  
Hamilton acts as though he does not care, but Laurens sees clear the troubled, watchful air about his countenance, the slightly clouded eyes, shrouded by a new burden.   
  
With Lafayette, there were none of this, for there were never any question he may turn them in.   
  
Oh, Meade says he should not, says it would make of him a poor friend, but where Lafayette utterly unfazed by Laurens’ and Hamilton’s affections (though he jests at the terror of imagining them about it, and Laurens also feels such embarrassment that Lafayette may ever _imagine_ ), Meade still seems somewhat…uneasy.   
  
And this fair, for is not Laurens himself uneasy with his inclinations? His nature? How can he ask another man to feel more at ease with it than he?   
  
Particularly when that man may admit he should never understand, as hard as he may try, as much as he may see the… _love_ between such men as they.  
  
And so, an impasse. Meade has been clear; he shall _not_ turn them in. Yet still, their camaraderie seems not repaired, his temper much shorter with them two than the other aides, and Laurens finds himself surprised it appears to escape their fellow aides' notice.   
  
Or mayhap it does not, and they choose the tactful path, conduct a steady retreat until such time as all appear proper friends once more.   
  
Laurens worries that may never occur.   
  
  
Of wider army matters and worries, as opposed to Laurens’ own internal woes, it seems the prisoner exchange that has been so hanging over the heads of Washington and his office since January may finally take place, or at least, some conference on the terms of such should.   
  
Washington wishes for Howe to put in place an agreement, between Britain and America, on how these things may be conducted throughout the rest of the war, and as such, has chosen his most persuasive, verbose, and distinguished men to travel to Germantown, which has been declared a neutral territory for this very purpose.   
  
Laurens should not hold any fondness at all for Germantown.  
  
Harrison, Colonel William Grayson and Elias Boudinot all remain under instruction to undertake this mission—as does Hamilton.   
  
They leave on the morrow.   
  
An event that Laurens should not like at all.   
  
Hamilton, his Hamilton, his Alexander, whom he has now not been parted from for two months, must travel into enemy territory, meet with the enemy, and yet somehow return unscathed.   
  
Knowing Hamilton’s temperament, this should seem a tall order, and Laurens should not like it. The last time they were parted as such, Hamilton were meant to be gone but three weeks.   
  
This became an awful three months, where Hamilton threatened death many times over.   
  
Whilst he should be only expected absent a few days, Laurens should fear the absolute worst, no matter how ridiculous, no matter how unlikely.   
  
Add to this turmoil Meade poking pointed jests into unrelated conversation wherever possible, and Laurens’ father continually pressing the matter of Martha, and Laurens should feel as though he a string stretched taut, poised at the moment before it begins its inevitable fray.  
  
As their departure should occur tomorrow morn, Harrison and Hamilton spend a great deal of time out of the office this day, meeting with Washington, discussing strategy, ensuring saddlebags are packed and the like.  
  
This should leave Laurens to bear the brunt of Meade’s enquiring gaze in the office, though it now several days since their early morn discussion in the cabin.   
  
Meade does, however, snare Hamilton with one particularly sharp jest, which none should catch bar they three, but that, in truth, should be bad enough.  
  
Hamilton is shuffling through papers, cursing the lack of organised piles, though this can only be his own fault, as it _his_ desk after all; makes some grumbling remark about his having to endure horseback for a day, when they have been camped at Valley Forge so long.  
  
“I find myself surprised,” Meade suddenly says, in response to such muttered complaints. “That you may even sit in a chair, Hammie, let alone upon a horse.”  
  
Hamilton looks up with all the confusion he must own, Laurens thinks, face creased, eyes round.   
  
Laurens should also feel the same; cannot fathom what Meade may think to reference, here.   
  
Tilghman glances up from where he frowns at some supply report. “He—Hammie should be a fair rider, I think? Not so good as you, perhaps, Meade, but not so poor either.”  
  
Meade only shrugs, waits for Tilghman’s gaze to fall back upon his paper.   
  
Then, he raises his eyebrows at Hamilton, flicks gaze to Laurens, and _winks_.   
  
For a moment, Laurens sits in no small amount of puzzlement.   
  
In his peripheral, however, Hamilton has turned as red as Laurens has ever seen. He moves stiffly away from the desk, papers located and scrunched in a whitening fist.   
  
“I should ride just fine, I think, Meade. I appreciate your concern, though it misplaced.”  
  
His tone indicates he does not appreciate this concern, not even one small part.   
  
Meade only smirks sharply, looks rather pleased, and perhaps a little vindicated, and Laurens should still not—  
  
Oh.   
  
Oh, _Lord_.   
  
It suddenly hits him with all the grace of a cannon ball what Meade so insinuates.   
  
Laurens cannot look at Hamilton, cannot look at Meade, cannot raise his head from his work for nigh half an hour, after such time as his fiery blush has faded, and he may glance at Meade without immediately thinking on whatever innuendo he has so polluted their office with.   
  
Tilghman seems no more the wiser; Fitzgerald toils in blissful ignorance.   
  
Laurens wonders whether this might seem Meade’s vengeance; to embarrass and humiliate them for what he has been so subjected to, what secret he is now forced into keeping.   
  
Though terrible, and somewhat childish, it should seem a result Laurens must feel rather grateful for, in truth.  
  
Better eternal embarrassment, than execution and eternal damnation.  
  
Perhaps.   
  
  
It seems, now that Meade has so found some courage on this topic, and also witnessed its effectiveness against its intended targets, that he shall not lay it to rest for a great while.   
  
Hamilton remains out of the office for much of the day, but that should not hinder Meade’s jesting temperament in any way, shape or form.   
  
Laurens bears such with an attempt at stalwartness, though in truth, Hamilton should be much better equipped for such a battle of innuendos. If Laurens has learnt only one thing over the course of his entanglement with Hamilton, it should be that he does not usually manage insinuations of intercourse, nor any other such thing, without great embarrassment and a rapid retreat.   
  
And so it goes.   
  
Meade returns from the kitchen come noon, laden with mugs and coffees, deposits them upon the desks of the present aides, and Gibbs, who toils here also this day.  
  
“I were wondering,” Meade begins; heads flick up with no small interest, for a wondering Meade usually makes for great amusement amidst the boredom of correspondence.   
  
“Oh really, Sir?” Tilghman perks up. “I think that should be a dangerous thing.”  
  
Meade frowns. “My wondering?”  
  
“Aye,” agrees Fitzgerald with a snort. “None can know where your wondering may lead.”  
  
Laurens elects to say nothing, for fear he may provoke more unpleasant jests.   
  
He need not have worried, for Meade accomplishes such anyhow, without any provocation whatsoever.   
  
“I were wondering,” Meade tries again; raises hand to stop Tilghman interrupting. “If any in this office have made note of which of the kitchen maids Hamilton should best deal with.”  
  
“By deal with,” Tilghman grins. “I should think you ask which he attempts to seduce for extra rations?”  
  
Laurens shifts uneasily, gaze fastened with iron will upon his desk. Again, he knows why Hamilton should do this, and knows that Hamilton should desire women, unlike he, and also knows he may not ask Hamilton to stay entirely chaste, for he cannot marry _him_ , after all.   
  
But such a subject should still pain him immensely, so that he aches in some strange, uncanny way.   
  
Meade, ignorant to Laurens’ inner turmoil, continues on with all the speed of a galloping horse. “Aye. Well. Have any, Sirs?”  
  
Tilghman shrugs. “Certainly; the lovely honey blond, I should think.”  
  
“Hmm.” Meade tilts his head, appears to pretend some contemplation. “Why, do you know, I rather think she appears in looks somewhat akin to our Laurens.”  
  
Laurens’ finds himself sitting up straight, yanked to attention, desperately fighting back what he knows to be a spreading blush.   
  
“I have not noticed such,” he manages to croak out; wishes Harrison were present to stop such nonsense.   
  
Tilghman and Fitzgerald, however, begin regarding him with curiousity, eyes raking over his features.   
  
Even Gibbs seems somewhat amused.   
  
“Ha!” Tilghman snorts, raises his coffee mug as though in salute. “I should rather think she does. You have an eye for faces, Meade.”  
  
Meade only smirks, sits down at his own desk, raises coffee to mouth, eyes dancing with infernal mirth. “I do; or perhaps Hamilton does.”  
  
Tilghman frowns, tilts his head. “For Laurens being his closest of friends, do you think?”  
  
Meade lowers the coffee, locks eyes with Laurens. “Oh, certainly. I am sure that should be the reason.”  
  
Laurens breaks this gaze, clutches his quill tight.   
  
He be equal parts furious and amused, reluctantly impressed by Meade’s jesting brilliance, and fearful of what new methods of torment he may conjure up.   
  
He also, perhaps, thinks he and Hamilton may deserve such ribbing, for it their own uncareful faults that should have so revealed them to Meade in the first place.  
  
  
The final straw that should destroy Laurens’ tolerance for such jests, more for what is should encourage later than for its faults in the present, occurs when Harrison and Hamilton have returned to the office some time near seven in the eve, to work on the very last of their arguments, debates and instructions for their conference with the British representatives.   
  
Hamilton and Laurens now work side by side once more, for their no longer having to fear Meade’s retribution quite so much, though Laurens thinks mayhap he shall come to regret such a move after all.   
  
They toil in quite perfect tandem, having spent many months now learning the quirks of one another’s working habits. Laurens knows he must watch for flying ink, move his papers out of the way of Hamilton’s feverish quill. He also knows Hamilton may hog the ink pot on his side of the desk if he not careful to ensure it be not moved.   
  
Hamilton, also, must have made similar such observations, for he seems careful to ensure he does not chew his quill _too_ often when he seated beside Laurens, knows exactly when he must absentmindedly pass Laurens a fresh sheet of paper without being asked.   
  
Their elbows knock and jostle, knees nudge under the table; every now and then Hamilton should carefully bump his shoulder against Laurens’, as though in small assurance of his continued presence, that this has not yet been torn from under them.   
  
At one moment this eve, Laurens should misplace the letter he were meant to work on next, begins a search, before Hamilton wordlessly passes it over; knows exactly what Laurens should require without being asked.   
  
Laurens cannot stop a fond smile, so ducks his head, glances away.   
  
Straight into Meade’s twinkling eyes.   
  
He cannot stop a sigh; cannot stop how his heart may speed up, thinks desperately of words to stall any such joke Meade may now conjure—  
  
He be too slow.   
  
Meade chuckles; receives an elbow to the side from Tilghman, who works furiously on some such thing.  
  
“I think,” Meade declares rather loudly; receives now a glare from Tilghman as well as an elbow. “That Hamilton and Laurens over there should seem almost the picture of long wedded bliss.”  
  
“I am sorry,” Tilghman coughs, laughs, lays down quill and irritation in one fell swoop. “You should think _what,_ my dear Meade?”   
  
Meade gestures theatrically. “Do they not?”  
  
All eyes suddenly fall upon Laurens and Hamilton; Laurens thinks they both shift away from one another as imperceptibly as possible.   
  
He resists the urge to glance away, glance down, must meet the teasing eyes without flinching, else reveal that there some small amount of truth to Meade’s ridiculous statement.   
  
Fitzgerald appears to be quite seriously appraising them. “Hmm. Should this be as they work so well beside one another? We might all be called wedded, then, for how amicable those in this office should be.”  
 _  
Thank the Lord for Fitzgerald_ , is a phrase Laurens has not ever thought should cross his mind, but it be not so unpleasant.   
  
Tilghman, however, should always enjoy a joke, and it seems he does not wish for this jest to be forgotten in a hurry.   
  
“If they are to be wedded,” he grins. “Who should be the wife?”   
  
Laurens near flinches, at this. He…he did not realise, before such jokes as this—but this jest, how he would wish it were true! How he should like to marry—but of course, he is married already, and this a crime, and a sin, and all manner of awful things, and just how tainted should his soul be that such a thought should even cross his mind?   
  
Hamilton, in the meantime, appears to have decided that entertaining the jest be the best course of action, as it should likely seem less suspicious than if they were angered, or defensive.   
  
“Which of us do you think better suited to the role?” he inquires light-heartedly of Tilghman, and Laurens should wish to either leap out some window or slink under his desk.   
  
Tilghman appears to pretend consideration of this seriously. “I should think you may make the better wife, Hamilton, for you being the smaller of you both, and also the one with the most words, the most fire.”  
  
Hamilton’s mouth drops open; he splutters a moment, and Laurens feels some of his fear fade into wary amusement.   
  
“Should that be so disagreeable?” Laurens teases, bolder than he means.   
  
Hamilton’s face whips towards him, high colour in his cheeks. He splutters, besieged on all sides, now. “I—well, that is—”   
  
“You have defeated his argumentative nature!” chuckles Fitzgerald. “I think Tilghman should be correct in his assessment, then.”  
  
“Fitzgerald!” Hamilton cries, face even brighter red. “You—I think I must begin a hasty verbal retreat, else find myself unmanned!”   
  
As Fitzgerald chortles and Tilghman splutters, Laurens leans as close as he dares, lays a discrete hand upon Hamilton’s upper thigh, near high enough to tease, whispers as quiet as he can against Hamilton’s ear:   
  
“I doubt any could unman you but I,” and is extremely pleased to watch Hamilton flush further, eyes darkening, gaze darting away quick.   
  
He himself also flushes as the almost inaudible words leave his lips, unsure where such confident teases should spring from, finds himself strangely triumphant, for this not an area he should usually excel in, nor feel comfortable, and yet he much enjoys watching what effect his words may have upon Hamilton, who may make no action in defence but to shift slightly in his seat, for the eyes of the office watch them.   
  
Meade’s eyes upon them from across the room glint oddly; as though he somehow both pleased and unnerved.   
  
Laurens should know such a feeling as that all too well.

  
As the day creeps onwards to meet night, as should be quite usual in this office, Hamilton remains at work long past when all others have finished their tasks.   
  
Laurens, though he has since completed all his own correspondence, pretends some business as the others leave and bid goodnight, for he desires to speak with Hamilton alone at least once before Hamilton should take his leave to Germantown.   
  
Harrison and Meade be the last to leave, Harrison bidding all sweet dreams and comfortable sleep in his usual fatherly manner, but Laurens still cannot shake the unease and disgust he should have seen upon Harrison’s face when the office were discussing the matter of Lieutenant Enslin.   
  
Finally, the only man to remain should be Meade.   
  
Laurens sits nervously for a time, regards Meade across the room as he finishes some document, sprinkles it with pounce powder.   
  
Meade looks up, appears to realise they in the office alone.   
  
“I think I may also retire to bed,” he says softly, eyes firm, stacking his papers neatly, reaching to loosen his cravat. “I trust you both may also be along shortly?”  
  
This be said almost in the manner of a warning or an admonishment; as though he reminds them how easily some actions may be discovered in this office.   
  
“Indeed,” Laurens replies, when it becomes clear Hamilton shall not, or perhaps has not heard over the frenzied workings of his quill.  
  
Meade’s stern gaze softens somewhat. “Aye, well. Do not tarry too late; Hamilton should have an early rising in the morn, I imagine.”  
  
“Aye, Sir,” Laurens agrees, tries desperately not to allow some fear and dismay to leak into his tone. He must fail, at this, for Meade’s eyes flick towards him, sharp.   
  
“I am sure it shall not be too long a parting,” he murmurs as he turns for the door, and Laurens near has to blink rapidly to stop some tear escaping; that Meade may still attempt this comfort despite all that they have so revealed to him should feel more than they may deserve.  
  
As the door closes over, Hamilton glances up.   
  
“He is finally gone, then?”   
  
Laurens sighs. “Hamilton—” then splutters with surprise, as Hamilton seizes his queue roughly, pulls his faces round to meet his lips, hard, all teeth and tongue.   
  
“Alexander—” Laurens pulls back, face flushed. “After all that has happened in this office with such behaviour, I might think—”   
  
Hamilton only rolls his eyes. “I have wanted to do such as that all day; nay, all day every day these past few. What else were you hoping to achieve with such teases earlier?”  
  
It true that they have had very little opportunity these past few days for such stolen intimacies.   
  
“Even so.” Laurens loosens his cravat a little. “We find ourselves somewhat lucky that it _were_ Meade that so witnessed us; see how greatly he struggled, and he one of our dearest friends.” He grimaces. “I truly should wish never to experience such an awful terror as that again.”  
  
Hamilton sighs, begins to gather all his papers into his travel desk, a satchel; another reminder that he should soon be taking his leave.  
  
Laurens twitches slightly, almost involuntarily lays a hand over Hamilton’s, stilling it.  
  
Hamilton glances up, small shadows dancing across his face in the light of the candle.   
  
“John?” he asks, eyes softening.   
  
Laurens slumps, squeezes Hamilton’s hand. “I should miss you, that is all.”  
  
Hamilton does not speak a moment; his gaze roves over Laurens’ face, flicking from eyes to mouth and back. “Aye; but Meade should be right, I shall not be gone long.”  
  
“That is what you so said the last time we parted,” Laurens whispers.   
  
Hamilton draws his hand away, glances down. “That were not intended to stretch so long.”  
  
“No,” whispers Laurens, withdraws his own hand, clenches both together in his lap. “But intent had very little to do with such as that.”  
  
Hamilton makes a sound of frustration. “I should think you might be glad for me, that Washington may finally assign me something of more use than deskwork.”  
  
Laurens frowns. “As if your deskwork should be anything but essential. And the General has done such many times afore now anyhow, though I should still be glad for you. But can I not be glad, and miss you? I do not see such things excluding one another.”  
  
Hamilton presses his lips together. “No, they do not exclude one other. I do, however, resent such an idea that I may be incapable of ensuring my own good health.”  
  
Laurens raises his eyebrows, remembers insistence of work under a raging fever. “In truth, Alexander—”  
  
Hamilton rises abruptly from the desk, begins to stack his things. “I am not some child to be coddled, Laurens.”  
  
“I did not suggest you were!” Laurens breathes out, hard, attempts to rein in his growing annoyance. “I care for you, does that not mean I may exhibit some concern?” He glares, is unsure how this has turned to argument, and also should be furious it has, when this were meant to be their one moment to themselves afore Hamilton’s departure.  
  
Hamilton clenches his fists. “I have already had the General impart upon me the importance of my ensuring my _health_ , my _safety_ , as though I were a son he might admonish; I do not require my lover’s input on such topics as well!”   
_  
My lover_.   
  
The first time Hamilton has ever called him such, Laurens thinks. Oh, he has used the word once before, in a jest of all being lucky who might find themselves Hamilton’s lover, but he has never called him so blatantly _mine_.   
  
“Mine,” Laurens whispers; but does not quite realise he does so until Hamilton quirks an eyebrow, interrupted in his anger.   
  
Laurens shakes his head at the inquiring gaze. “’Tis nothing.”  
  
Hamilton slowly sits again. “If it were nothing, you would not have said it. So?”  
  
Laurens flushes, glances away. “Firstly, I shall say I do not _admonish_ you, nor do I think you a child. I love you, as has been established many times over, and I think that may give me some leave to express concern. That is what one _does_ when they should love someone, Alexander.”   
  
His tone grows sterner than he intends, and Hamilton gapes.  
  
“John, I did not mean—”   
  
“Secondly,” Laurens continues; he should have thoughts spilling out now, and would speak them before his courage may desert him. “I think the General only means the same; whether you should like it or no, it be clear he feels some fondness for you.”  
  
Hamilton’s eyes harden. “Laurens—”   
  
“Further,” Laurens fixes his gaze upon Hamilton until the other closes his mouth with no small huff. “I…” Here, courage does flee him somewhat.  
  
“Do not let me stop you now,” Hamilton comments dryly, teasingly. “I should like a man who may silence me.”  
  
“ _Christ_.” Laurens laughs despite himself; Hamilton’s brazen nature may still surprise him in many ways, it seems. “ _Hamilton_.”  
  
“No, no,” Hamilton waves a hand, smirks. “Continue with your reasoning, please, Sir.”  
  
Laurens swallows, glances away; either the room begins to heat, or his blood should. “You called me as _my lover_. Mine.”  
  
Hamilton’s eyes widen, then drop into a hooded, heavy look; a teasing expression crosses his face. “I suppose I did call you so. Should you like that?”   
  
The _swoop_ that accompanies these words low in Laurens’ gut should steal his breathe clean away; he finds his gaze frozen upon Hamilton’s face, searching his eyes, finds they have both leaned closer, Hamilton hands now tracing patterns on Laurens’ knee, fingers twisting in gentle circles.   
  
“I…” Laurens pauses, swallows again. “I…should, I think. I should also like to call _you_ mine, Sir.”  
  
At this, Hamilton gasps ever so slightly, fingers digging into Laurens’ knee almost painfully. “Oh?” he manages to choke out; to Laurens’ ears, he sounds quite breathless, and he suddenly wonders—  
  
“Oh, indeed,” he murmurs, raises a hand to lay it against Hamilton’s neck, fingers teasing the soft hairs that lay there. “You should be _mine_ , my dear boy.”  
  
Hamilton inhales sharp, shifts in his seat; his eyes jump to Laurens’ mouth, and then their lips are meeting in a rush, heat and breath and taste and want melding into some unearthly chorus.   
  
Laurens feels Hamilton shift forward in his chair, until suddenly he is surprised by the weight of him upon his lap, the feel of Hamilton’s thighs tightening around his waist, the—well.   
  
Certainly, Hamilton should seem to much desire being called _mine_.   
  
And so Laurens whispers it, and breathes it, and kisses it down Hamilton’s neck, unties and tosses his cravat aside, murmurs it into the soft skin at the base of his throat, creates bruises made of these words so that Hamilton might wear such, hidden, when he travels away from his Laurens, as a marker of this possession he seems to so enjoy.   
_  
Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine_.   
  
These words thrum as a heartbeat might, catch under Laurens’ skin, hook into his blood, explode with heavy heat when Hamilton moves a hand low.   
  
However, logical sense does, this time, manage to make some return.  
  
“The door!” Laurens cries hoarsely, pulls away with all haste, and much reluctance.   
  
Hamilton is pouting, but his gaze appears wary. “Aye; the thrice damned door indeed.”  
  
Laurens huffs a small laugh, manages to deposit a swollen lipped, cheek flushed Hamilton upon the chair, snatches up the discarded cravat and passes it back.   
  
“We had best to bed, I think, for you should have a journey ahead of you.”  
  
“Damn the journey,” Hamilton mutters, but Laurens grins, shakes his head.   
  
“Unfortunately, we may not do that.” He holds out a hand, which Hamilton takes, and then stops, glances down; Laurens realises what he has so done.   
  
It seems so natural, to hold out this hand, to assist, to create this soft connection between them. He must ensure he does not do so instinctually when others be near.   
  
They gather their papers, their coats; Laurens turns to blow out the remaining candle, halts when he meets Hamilton’s gaze.   
  
It be dark, and hungry, and fixed upon Laurens’ as though he may like to incinerate him with this passion.   
  
Laurens’ knees feel weak; his entire body flushes with warmth, yet he somehow shivers.  
  
“Alexander—” he chokes out, reaches shakily for the door knob, with no small amount of desperation.   
  
Hamilton’s hand reaches it first.   
  
He does not open the door.   
  
Instead, he only grasps for the key kept on the desk nearest the door, lifts it.   
  
Laurens hears the lock click.   
  
“Hamilton—” he tries, “We really ought not to—”   
  
Hamilton drops the key back upon the desk. It clatters in the silence, accompanied only by the sound of their stuttered breathing.   
  
“I think I have taken good care of the damned door.” Hamilton smirks, reaches a hand up to tug gently on Laurens’ mussed hair.   
  
“My dear boy, I do not think—”   
  
Hamilton steps closer. The candle shudders and goes out; plunging them into darkness but for the small cold light of the moon falling through the window.   
  
“It should be a short parting, I hope, but if we cannot be sure…” Hamilton trails off suggestively. “It has been so _long_ , Jack.”  
  
His tone grows pleading, near ridiculously so; _Jack_ from Hamilton’s lips should ensnare Laurens hopelessly, as though he be clay Hamilton may now mould to his will.  
  
“My _God_ ,” Laurens curses. “Hamilton, we truly cannot—”   
  
Hamilton lifts his hand, places his fingertips lightly against Laurens’ mouth; Laurens might swoon, if the fire in his blood were not keeping him upright.   
  
“Hush,” Hamilton mutters. “We—”   
  
His eyes flash mischievously in the near dark, and suddenly Laurens feels as he did in the Baron’s room, where desire, and want, and hunger overtook all logical facilities.   
  
The only man who has ever done such things as to cause this should be Hamilton.   
_  
His_ Hamilton.  
  
Without much thought, without _any_ thought if he honest with himself, Laurens has seized Hamilton, turned him, pressed him up against the wall, slotted thigh between his legs, their usual position where Laurens should meet wall and Hamilton should _press_ quite reversed.   
  
Laurens finds that he should enjoy the visage this presents rather more than he may have expected.   
  
Hamilton is smirking, pleased corners of his mouth lit very slightly by starlight, chin raised ever so minutely, tilted head as though in delicious invitation.   
  
He smiles coyly up at Laurens, who thinks he may feel his heartbeat as an ocean in his ears.  
  
“I suppose,” Hamilton murmurs, low and full, hands rising to rest against Laurens’ waist, tease at the edges of his vest. “That I shall play the part of the irresistible wife after all?”  
  
And Laurens should cringe from such, should pronounce such pretence as that as foul, immoral, wicked, Godless—instead, he only swallows, hands fluttering nervously against Hamilton’s side.   
  
“Aye,” he mutters, leans closer so that their lips brush. “Aye, indeed you should.”  
  
And surely this were not what Meade so meant when he begun this tease of roles, but the manner in which Hamilton looks up at him, hungry, from beneath coquettishly lowered lashes, means Laurens should like to consume him entirely.   
  
Here, now, without delay, upon these damned desks, in truth.   
  
And this should be such a strange feeling, a strange confidence, a strange evolution in his sinful preferences, but then Hamilton tilts his mouth, invites with tongue, and by _God_ if Laurens should be damned for this hunger, then he should at least not starve.

***

For the benefit of all the other aides whom toil in their office, Laurens does not, in fact, have Hamilton upon the damned desk, much as he should, mayhap secretly, wish to. But they participate in far and enough, slick hands, soft touches, rough teeth, licks, bruises—all should end with their hunger sated, limbs heavy, soft, loving kisses and caresses, whispered sweet nothings, lying as young youths in rebellious love might, upon the office floor.   
  
Coats are used as pillows, dirtied handkerchiefs burnt, boots discarded, legs entwined, hands held in promise between them.   
  
There be something miraculously beautiful, to this moment, and also something darkly awful, though Laurens cannot tell quite why he should feel such heaviness as that when this moment may be so light.  
  
Perhaps some small part of his traitorous heart should whisper that there may so rarely be opportunity for such as this again, though also he should know not why he should feel so, when it likely they shall find places for stolen intimacies whence the army finally moves again.   
  
Why should he feel this way? Why must he, when all should seem as right?   
  
These precious moments he must somehow always ruin with premonition, with fear; he clenches Hamilton’s hand tighter, watches his chest rise and fall in sleep, alive, here, beside him.   
  
He refuses to acknowledge these doubts, these worries; instead only gazes at his dear boy as the sun begins its rise.

  
  
Hamilton, Harrison, and Washington’s other representatives do not return from the Germantown meeting until very late the second of April.   
  
Only three days, this true, but these three days should feel as though they stretch three months.   
  
Even once returned, Hamilton does not spare much time for reunion, as the commission for prisoner exchange goes badly.   
  
Howe’s chosen representatives attended without intention of discussing anything so formal as the treaty on exchange desired by Washington, only with promises of Howe’s word, which the General should not stand for, nor desire, for them being terms that are so easily altered. His Excellency should want a formal agreement from the British Government, no further partial exchanges.   
  
Further, as Laurens reads when he manages a glimpse of the report Hamilton works so furiously on upon his return—  
  
— _the Commissioners on both sides were always to retire, after the business of the day, within their respective lines, and the neutrality of Germantown was only to continue, during the actual time of negotiation_ —  
  
—which should have been completely contrary to what Howe so communicated with Washington, for it would have entailed Hamilton, Harrison, Grayson and Boudinot travelling near seventeen miles between negotiations each day, a ridiculous burden, and a possible attempt to sabotage these exchange efforts.   
  
And so, the four return in foul mood; this also not much conducive to Laurens stealing time with Hamilton alone.   
  
The day post their return, their office receives a letter from Howe, expressing dismay at how the negotiations should have turned out; it seems he so thought Germantown were never meant to be a permanent place for this meeting, and supposed his Commissioners would choose a more suitable location to continue. He meant the American party no affront.   
  
Or this what he so says, anyhow, as Tilghman expresses sarcastically.   
  
In this strange maelstrom, then, Laurens should hardly manage a word, except to briefly express his relief at Hamilton’s safe return, Hamilton seeming much too absorbed in his current work.   
  
The sixth of April appears on the horizon, and so too does another departure, for Hamilton and the other three men be sent to negotiate with the enemy once more, this time much further afield, in Newton Township.   
  
So it is that within a week, Hamilton should have departed, returned and departed once more, and Laurens has spoken with him in the course of his duties but once or twice, for Hamilton even forsakes their shared bed when he present in camp, to continue his work.   
  
Laurens finds himself feeling strangely bereft, floating in some sea of correspondence without an anchor binding him to reality, and that should be absurd, that he might depend upon the presence of one man so dearly, and also dangerous, for what may he do if that presence should be torn away?  
  
He has experienced such as that once, at Schuylkill, and that were before he had so greatly realised the absolute depth of his care for Hamilton. Yet, he had already contemplated an end when he thought Hamilton had so passed.   
  
What should he do now?  
  
It bears no thinking about.

  
As ever, if there should be one man about their army who might notice Laurens’ moods beside Hamilton, it be Meade, and Meade, now granted further understanding of why Laurens’ moods may rise and fall with Hamilton’s fortunes, apparently decides that may also mean he ought to comment on such.   
  
Laurens should appreciate this somewhat, but also wishes fervently that Meade never gained such knowledge, for the awkwardness it grants to both of them.   
  
Laurens should be ambushed by Meade on the eve of the tenth, four days post Hamilton’s second departure. He has remained working long past when the other aides have so retired, and Meade should not likely have realised he even still awake, but that he returns for his coat, as he left it on a chair.   
  
If Meade could cease leaving his belongings behind in inconvenient places, that should do a great deal of good for all involved.   
  
“Laurens?”   
  
Laurens startles, head shooting upwards; in his weary incoordination, he knocks the ink pot, which Meade leaps across the room to catch with a small snort.   
  
“I think perhaps you ought retire, Sir.”  
  
Laurens blinks, wonders whether for a moment it should be day or night, the candlelight appearing almost the same as daybreak to his fatigued vision.  
  
“I—aye, I suppose.”  
  
Meade regards him a strange moment, eyes searching. Laurens resists the urge to close his, for he near feels his soul being laid bare.   
  
Meade clears his throat, raps the desk awkwardly. “He…ah, he should not like you to…cause yourself ill health, I think.”  
  
Laurens blinks again; once closed, his eyes require some effort to be willed open. “Hmm. As though he may be one to talk.”  
  
Meade makes a face, seems as though he may regret beginning such a conversation. “That is—aye, that true, but…” He huffs. “I am not sure how I might council you on this subject, I confess.”  
  
Laurens frowns. His wearied temperament removes many inhibitions, it seems, else he may not say what things he so says next.   
  
“As you always would, I presume. Hamilton remains my friend, regardless of any other such thing you may know of.”  
  
Meade sighs. “Aye, of course, and I should know that, but—” He gestures helplessly, near drops his coat. “I am trying, Laurens, I truly am, for you should both still be my dearest friends, but I cannot help…” He trails away, eyes sad. “I am trying,” he repeats.  
  
Laurens bites his lip, clenches nails into palms. “I know,” he replies softly. “I am truly sorry, Meade.”  
  
Meade hums, slumps into a chair. “It should be so…I watch your glances, your movements, the care shown…for there be clearly care, I do not dispute it. But how, when scripture should say—?”   
  
Laurens also slumps; his knee begins its anxious jitter. “Believe me when I say I have read scripture over and over, clung to it as a means to reason why I ought not allow myself these affections. I have despised myself and these feelings—no, not despised, for that implies the matter resolved. And it not, for the hatred should continue.”  
  
He stops a moment, pauses, realises just how much he has confessed; sleep should be perhaps required after all, less he spill all sorts of secrets to his fellow aides.   
  
Meade is quiet a short moment, eyes watching Laurens softly, mouth quirked oddly.   
  
“I had not overly contemplated…” Meade stops, appears to rethink how he might rephrase what he wishes to say. “I had not considered such,” he tries again. “Or—I had not thought about how such as this might affect the men it afflicts.”   
_  
Afflicts_. Though a hard, painful word, it does not feel inaccurate regarding how Laurens has felt wrestling with these demons.   
  
Meade glances downwards, eyes lowered towards the floor. “I had thought it…some choice that depraved men may make in desperation, but somehow, your ardent attachment to Hamilton should not seem like that. Which should be why—”   
  
“You did not report us, aye.” Laurens sighs bitterly. “Whether you believe me or no, I would tell you it has never felt a choice; more a feeling I have been cursed with since I were old enough to realise I did not fancy the ladies as I should.”  
  
Meade’s eyes flick up; he stares in clear astonishment. “You should not…fancy women? At _all_?”   
  
Laurens snorts. “Oh, how I have wished I may, Sir. But alas, no.”  
  
“Hammie, though?” Meade has once more sprouted a contemplative frown. “The tomcat? He should, surely? He must!”  
  
Laurens shrugs. “Aye; he does. He should desire both.”  
  
“Both?” Poor Meade appears quite shocked, floundering in this strange new world opened up to his knowledge. “Both? Good God.”  
  
Laurens cannot stop a small laugh. “Hmm.”  
  
Meade taps nervous fingers against the edge of Laurens’ desk. “In some way, with how all-encompassing, how hungry, Hammie’s personality should be, that does not entirely surprise me so much as it should.” He pauses again, eyes growing strangely sad. “So he may yet marry, I suppose?”   
  
Laurens blinks rapidly, feels as though his heart forgets it may require rhythm. “I—he—of course, he may, if he so—” He chokes off, unable to continue verbalising such a fear as has haunted him since first this tryst were begun.   
  
“Ah.” Meade reaches a tentative hand out, very lightly places it upon Laurens’ arm. “I am sorry, Laurens.”  
  
There be no specification as to what he may be sorry for: Laurens’ wretched state upon Hamilton’s departure, the sinful turnings of his nature, the idea of losing Hamilton, the idea of never being allowed to keep the one person he loves.   
  
The apology should not require specification; somehow it encompasses all.   
  
Laurens near weeps; he does not deserve such pity, such care, from a man who so clearly cannot understand, does not understand, and yet offers such sympathy anyhow.   
  
“I think you are too good a friend for one such as I,” he manages to whisper.   
  
Meade shakes his head, removes his hand, stands abruptly. “No,” he says sternly. “For I see before me only a good man, and I think that warrants good friends. Now,” he raises a hand, stops whatever further protestations were about to spring from Laurens’ lips. “We are going to retire, and you are going to sleep, Laurens. Hammie shall return, for his persistent nature would not allow otherwise, I think.”

***

By the twelfth, Hamilton has returned, as Meade so said, along with an angered mood and further hatred in his heart for the British and their dealings. No concessions were made towards the Continentals on the part of the British; no treatise on prisoner exchange, no agreement higher than that of Howe’s word, and only a partial exchange possible.   
  
Hamilton gripes, and rants, for he feels this amounts to some failure on his part, no matter how Laurens may try and reassure him it falls onto the shoulders of none but Howe. He knows Hamilton worries that perhaps Washington may take this as a sign Hamilton should _not_ be capable of any such command as be wishes, even though he has accomplished incredible things in Washington’s name several times over, and he were certainly not the only man involved in the commission on the prisoner exchange.   
  
But Hamilton will not hear these facts, only turns the conversation to teases and kisses any private moment they may have.   
  
Whilst Laurens does not dislike such at all, he worries that if Hamilton shall not speak on it, this festering wound between he and Washington should continue to ever so slowly grow worse, no matter how clearly the General appears to care for his youngest, most brilliant aide-de-camp.   
  
Hamilton cannot remain in too foul a temper for long, however, for the return of one most dear Frenchman grows imminent.

Time is slipping swiftly into mid-April, when one morn, whilst all toil dutifully in the office, there be some commotion outside Potts’ House; calls for the General, though he is not about Headquarters at present.   
  
The front door clatters open, then closed; Fitzgerald leans out the office slyly, face bursting into an almost childlike grin.  
  
“Our dear Marquis has arrived!” he cries, and suddenly all forget what tasks they were so about, each man laying down quills in a disorderly fashion, scattering papers and leaping to their feet, jostling one another out the door.   
  
Hats are tossed in the air, embraces exchanged; Lafayette babbles a mile a minute, some in French, some in English, some in a somewhat amusing combination of both.   
  
Laurens finds himself squashed between Lafayette and Hamilton one moment, Lafayette and Tilghman the next, smiles and laughs echoing off the walls, as Lafayette relates his journey to Albany and back with as much relish and dramatics as possible.   
  
And then, when the excitement has calmed somewhat, when the General has returned and absconded with Lafayette to his office, and all have returned, some small part chastened, to their original tasks, Laurens realises Meade has said not one word. An incredibly unprecedented situation; instead his eyes have only followed Lafayette’s every move warily, and Laurens wonders with small dread whether there might not be some further confrontation on this entire mess brewing.

  
Unfortunately, as with many of his worse suppositions, he should be proved correct—to some extent, anyhow.   
  
When Lafayette be finally released from speaking with the General, he sticks head round the door, promises as much wine as he can lay his hands upon to the other aides at some celebratory moment hence, and asks that Hamilton and Laurens might accompany him for a task.   
  
This pretence does not truly pass muster, but Harrison only rolls his eyes, waves them away; all know their trio to be particularly fond of one another.   
  
Meade’s interested eyes watch them go; Laurens feels them as though they a physical tough on the back of his neck.   
  
Lafayette proceeds to jaunt towards the aides’ cabin, grasping Laurens and Hamilton both with firm hands, interlacing their fingers as young children might, exclaiming over the cold feeling of the cabin, winking and nudging when he realises they share a bed.   
  
“What a fun happenstance, _mes chers amis_!”   
  
Laurens exchanges a wary glance with Hamilton; he supposes they will have to inform Lafayette of what Meade so knows eventually, and does not relish what French scolding they might receive.   
  
Lafayette all but _flops_ down upon the bed he knows to be Laurens’ and Hamilton’s, exclaims theatrically of how he has missed such on his travels back to Valley Forge.  
  
“Ah, but how I have also missed you, _mes chers_! I have had much adventures, but they were not so good, for they lacked your wonderful involvement, _oui_?”   
  
Hamilton, seemingly hoping to keep Meade out of conversation as long as may be possible, sits down upon another bed, grins cheerfully at Lafayette.   
  
“Oh, but we have missed you too, Sir. We were greatly dismayed to hear how Congress should have treated you and your men.”  
  
“Hmm.” Lafayette smirks. “Congress. _Oui_. I think they have been taught some lesson.”  
  
Laurens feels his eyebrow raise; his amusement spiking even as he worries on other things.   
  
“Oh? And how have you so managed that, my dear Marquis?” He sits down beside Hamilton on the bed, Hamilton laying a hand over his knee.   
  
Lafayette’s gaze follows this movement, but he says nothing, only smirks slightly. “Ah, but I have managed to defeat both Conway and Gates!”  
  
Laurens finds himself surprised into silence; he feels Hamilton dig fingers into his knee in shock.   
  
“You, alone?” Hamilton queries. “I had heard that Conway were somewhat demoted—”   
  
“You had?” interrupts Laurens. “And did not so inform me of such a fact?”  
  
Hamilton grimaces, his eyes upon Laurens seem wary. “There were…other, more pertinent, matters weighing upon my mind.”  
  
Ah.   
_  
Oh_.   
  
Of course.   
  
Laurens returns thoughts to Gates and Conway. “Well, _mon ami_? How did you achieve such a brilliant sleight of hand?”  
  
Lafayette grins so widely, his face might split. “I, ah…Oh, _mes chers_ , it were somewhat wicked, but I did so enjoy this pretence.”   
  
“Lafayette,” begins Hamilton, tone turning to incredulous mischief. “What did you _do_?”   
  
Lafayette chuckles. “I—when I were given directive that I might return to you, de Kalb and I both, I received a letter, ah, from _ton père_ , Laurens—”   
  
Laurens grimaces. “ _Oui_?”  
  
Lafayette waves a hand. “ _Non, non_ , it were not his fault entire. _Toutefois_ , I digress. This letter, it tells me Conway shall be left in charge of the Northern Army upon my departure, and I did not like this idea.”  
  
“ _Pas du tout_ ,” Hamilton agrees, rather venomously. “Such a snake must never be allowed command as that.”  
  
“ _Exactement_ ,” Lafayette nods. “And so, I wrote Congress, and I tell them I should not like for a man so below my station to receive my Command, and should feel very ill-used if that the case.”  
  
Hamilton is openly laughing, now, but Laurens frowns.   
  
“Such threats as that did not stop Conway being assigned a post there when all this first began.”  
  
“ _Non_ ,” concurs Lafayette. “ _Mais_ —and here the small wicked thing. I imply—is that the word?” He nods to himself. “ _Oui_ , I imply I have much more influence over French diplomatic affairs than I truly should, and warn Congress of this fact.”  
  
“Lafayette!” Hamilton appears near choking on his mirth. “ _Gilbert_. How you have the gall for such, I shall never know.”  
  
“You! You think I have too much gall? Pah!” Lafayette snorts. “From you, _mon cher_ Hamilton, I find this greatly amusing.”  
  
“ _Oui_.” Laurens smiles softly. “And what of Conway now?”   
  
Lafayette waves a dismissive hand. “Henry Laurens were quite convinced of my warning, and so he instructed Gates that Conway must be given some insignificant post in Peeks Kill, I think. I care not, for now he may leave _mon général_ , alone, _non_?”   
  
Hamilton grins fiercely. “With Mifflin having already lost his post, and Conway demoted to such as that, I think Gates may also now be cowed and tamed. You be truly _incroyable, mon cher_ Lafayette.”   
  
“ _Oui, oui_ , I know this.” Lafayette pretends to take a theatrical bow. “But what of you, _mes chers amis_? _Mes beaux imbéciles_?”  
  
“Fools,” grimaces Hamilton. “Aye, we—”   
  
“Hamilton,” hisses Laurens with alarm, elbows him. “Lafayette has only just returned, I do not think we need trouble him—”   
  
At this, there a knock at the cabin door.   
  
“Aye?” calls Hamilton tentatively.   
  
Meade—of course! For who else manages to be so consistent in his impositions?—walks through the door. “Forgive me,” he says. “I only left my—Ah. Marquis! I apologise for the intrusion.”  
  
Laurens thinks perhaps this _intrusion_ were intentional, but it would seem uncharitable to say so.   
  
“It matters not!” Lafayette declares amicably. “I intrude upon your space, anyhow.”   
  
“Hmm.” Meade closes the door carefully, eyes darting to Laurens and Hamilton.   
  
Laurens’ stomach drops. “Meade—” he starts, dislikes the pleading note to his tone.   
  
“I, ah, do not—” Meade begins, pauses as Hamilton also begins to protest.   
  
Lafayette immediately seems to notice the increase in tension. He glances between the three of them with concern. “Ought I take my leave, _mes amis_?”   
  
“No,” says Meade. “Please do not. I shall go.”   
  
Hamilton abruptly stands, fists clenched. “No. Let us have this out now, before it should infect all good cheer once more, Sirs.”  
  
“Hamilton?” Lafayette’s eyes have widened with some fear. “I am—I shall go.”  
  
“It concerns you as well, Sir,” Meade rebuffs gently, and Lafayette stares.   
  
“I? Who have been absent these long two months? How should this be possible?”   
  
Meade grimaces, shakes his head.   
  
Laurens cannot speak.   
  
Hamilton, as always, should be the man to find words first.   
  
“He knows,” he says simply, a reflection of how Laurens so informed Hamilton of Lafayette’s knowing. “He caught us so.”  
  
Lafayette stills completely; his eyes glint dangerously. “He knows—what, _exactement_ , Hamilton?” His tone sounds uncharacteristically harsh.   
  
“About—” Hamilton gestures vaguely at Laurens. “Us.”  
  
Lafayette leaps to his feet. “You— _mon Dieu!_ ” His hands jump to his forehead, card desperately through his powdered hair. “You, you— _une telle stupidité_ , _je ne parle plus anglais_ _!_ ”  
  
He glares at all three of them, who cower under such an uncharacteristic expression upon the Frenchman’s face. “And what? I must now use my superiority to threaten here? Is that it? _Non_?”   
  
Meade startles, blinks. “No! No, Sir, not at all. I will not—report them.”  
  
“You will not? Truly? Oh, _mon Dieu_. _Zut!_ ” Lafayette seems near a mood where Laurens should not be surprised if he were to shake his fists at them. “How you have somehow managed to expose yourself to the one man who shall keep this secret, I do not know!”   
  
Lafayette truly seems irate, but also _fearful_. Laurens realises just how truly the Marquis fears for his and Hamilton’s lives in this moment.   
  
He grimaces, feels shaky and clammy, scalp tight. “Lafayette, _je suis désolé_. We did not intend—”   
  
“I should hope not!” In his ire, Lafayette’s accent grows thicker and thicker. “Intend indeed!”   
  
“In truth,” Meade supplies, apparently thinks that Lafayette’s temper may soon pose a threat to all three of them, regardless of who should be in the wrong. “I were not so very shocked, all things I have so suspected considered. I might have known Hamilton were at least involved with someone, though I would have supposed a woman, for how little he played the tomcat this winter, unlike at Morristown the year past.”  
  
“Meade!” objects Hamilton. “I do not think I—”   
  
“Hush!” Lafayette points one incredibly angered finger towards Hamilton’s mouth. “You and your too many words shall not speak! I cannot believe, after all I warn you of, that you should be so foolish! Ah!”   
  
Laurens feels suddenly rather bad that Lafayette’s returning has transformed into such an argument.   
  
“Perhaps,” he suggests rather quietly. “We may discuss such a topic some other time, when—”   
  
“ _Non!_ ” Now Lafayette’s furious gaze is fixed upon him, and it should be nothing short of terrifying. “You shall not speak either, Laurens! Ah!” He shakes his hands in some kind of plea for reason. “Such stupid fools you be! Such stupid fools I have for friends! I think we shall just announce such as Meade knows to all the aides, _oui_? I think we may as well, lest any else catch you with breeches down!”   
  
“Lafayette!” protests Laurens, knows his face turns flaming red. “We were not—Meade did not—”   
  
Hamilton scoffs. “He only saw us—kiss, goddamn it. Hardly anything so incriminating as that.”  
  
“Until you told him so,” Laurens points out, rather recklessly, but it be true.   
  
Poor Meade looks as though he very much regrets ever entering the cabin. “I think I shall just retrieve my travel desk—”   
  
“Ah,” says Hamilton, speaking over him. “Yes. Well. I were angry, and deliberating attempting to shock.”  
  
“Aye,” Laurens agrees dryly. “You—”   
  
“Hush!” Lafayette exclaims again. “You were _stupide_ , that is what you were! Foolish and indiscreet and I am lucky I do not return here and see you both dishonourably discharged by _le général_ , or worse!” He grimaces. “ _Une telle idiotie extrême!_ ”  
  
Now, Meade suddenly appears a small part amused. “I do not disagree, Sir, but I have already told them so.”  
  
“Ah.” All the bluster appears to leave Lafayette’s frame at once. “Well.” He points at Laurens and Hamilton in turn. “What I so think still stands, for you are both such fools. _Mes imbéciles, oui_ , but still so foolish. I cannot believe—ah!”   
  
Meade chuckles very slightly. “I believe us to be united on that front, Marquis.”  
  
“Ha.” Lafayette nods. “Indeed, _Monsieur._ And I think I must thank you for your discretion on the part of my foolish friends.”  
  
Meade smiles gently. “My discretion were hard wrestled with, but they have so won it now, despite all. However, I have warned them I cannot help if others may catch them.”  
  
Lafayette nods. “ _Oui_. As have I.” He shakes his head. “I think I must depart, else I decide I ought to strike you both for this foolishness.”  
  
“Gilbert,” begins Hamilton, tone imploring. _  
_  
“ _Non_.” Lafayette’s refusal is firm. “I should require a moment away from you foolish pair, as dear as you be to me. Never fear, I am sure this nonsensical wish to be apart from you shall depart once I forget quite how foolish you are.”  
  
He sweeps from the cabin, a sheepish Meade and his travel desk trailing behind.   
  
Hamilton watches them go with wide eyes, a hand brushing Laurens’ softly.  
  
“I think we might regret the both of them knowing,” he murmurs.   
  
“Aye.” Laurens thinks on Meade’s jests, winces greatly. “If not for reasons of secrecy, then for reasons of dignity.”  
  
“Indeed.”

***

The end of April sweeps by in a flurry of papers, correspondence and important happenings. By the twenty third, news reaches them of Conway’s resignation, and of Congress’ acceptance of such; it seems Lafayette has ensured the departure of that man from their army after all.   
  
The twenty eighth brings with it a triumphant and jubilant Walker, who has now secured the position of Baron von Steuben’s aide-de-camp; Laurens wonders whether they ought to inform Walker and his circle of Lafayette’s knowledge, and vice versa, but decides it better if at least some parties remain ignorant of one another in this elaborate deception of such grave crimes as theirs.   
  
And then, by the second of May, an ecstatic, overjoyed mood sweeps camp, where even General Washington should endorse drinking, gallivanting and general merriment with all haste, for the French have signed the treaty!   
  
They should now be allied against the British with the French. Their rebellious colonies turn this fight into something proving a proper war, and one where they may have now some true hope of winning.  
  
And though he just as pleased as the others, just as joyous as Lafayette for the involvement of his countrymen in their fight, Laurens should feel no small amount of unease, even as the aides toast the French, the fight, the chance of winning, for two stark reasons.   
  
The first, a foolish, selfish fear, that this war may now turn towards naval involvement, and his chance for valour and sacrifice in battle should thus prove far more elusive.   
  
The second, also selfish, but further grounded in reality: that the French may bring about a sooner end to the war, and as such, the beginning of the rest of their lives, where Laurens does not know what may await, except perhaps for the loss of his love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. So. The promised update about my posting schedule. We’re getting closer to some historical fact heavy chapters. We are also, I think, definitely past the halfway point in this story, but it remains to be seen just how many chapters I have left to write (my outline is not quite finished oops). 
> 
> So, here’s the deal: Updates are going to slow to once every week-and-a-half to two weeks for a little while. If I get some more written over the Christmas holidays, we might speed up to once a week again. 
> 
> As much as I’ve loved putting out a chapter every week, it just isn’t entirely feasible anymore. I really love this fic, & have invested A LOT of time & energy into Laurens’ & Hamilton’ story, so I’d rather take a little longer to make sure my facts are correct & to ensure the quality of my writing can be maintained :)) 
> 
> Hope y’all understand! You’ve all been so encouraging with this fic and that has helped my motivation immensely! 
> 
> (also, if you want real time updates on how chapters are going, I’ll probably be letting y’all know over on my tumblr https://clear-as-starlight.tumblr.com if ya wanna check in now & then)
> 
> Letter excerpts:   
> -‘To George Washington from the Commissioners for Prisoner Exchange, 4 April 1778’ https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/03-14-02-0376   
> Source on the prisoner exchange:   
> -‘The Pennsylvania Prisoner Exchange Conferences, 1778’, Larry G. Bowman, North Texas State University.
> 
> French translations:   
> -Une telle stupidité: Such stupidity  
> -Je ne parle plus anglaise: I can’t speak English anymore  
> -Je suis désolé: I am sorry   
> -Une telle idiotie extreme: Such extreme idiocy   
> -Mes imbéciles: My fools


	18. A Gathering Momentum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, hope you’re doing okay! I am *so sorry* this update took so long, please accept all the apologies! Christmas sort of took a hammer to all my time and effort, but here we are, finally! 
> 
> Thanks for your patience <3 Hopefully the next chapter doesn’t take quite as long! 
> 
> Also: A quick reminder that this fic remains T rated for the moment; if you’re reading something in this chapter and you worry it’s heading into explicit territory, it is not :D 
> 
> (but I probably will be writing some more explicit Hamilton/Laurens one-shots at some point, if you’re interested in that kind of thing ;))
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_Winter Encampment  
Valley Forge  
May 5th – May 31st 1778_

The mood about camp suddenly seems much changed, an odd charge in the air, a feeling difficult to grasp a hold of, difficult to give a tangible name to. Elation mixed with fear, apprehension mixed with staticity. That same urge to move, to charge, to _fight_ seems to enshroud them all once word reaches them of the French alliance, as though this treaty on a piece of paper should somehow inject new life and purpose into the collective veins of the Continental soldiers.  
  
That, and the rapid appearance of news indicating a state of upheaval on the side of the British.  
  
General Howe, it turns out, has resigned his Commission, and travels back to England with all haste.  
  
Hamilton rages at this, as should be his usual response to these sorts of events, for he feels Howe were so uncooperative on the matter of the prisoner exchanges as he knew he were not long for command, and did not wish to participate in such complicated negotiations.  
  
Now, it seems, General Sir Henry Clinton is to be the British Commander-in-Chief, and the side of the Patriots must scramble to strategize how this change, and that of the French alliance, may alter this fight, this war.  
  
Laurens knows much of what information they do receive comes through the mysterious paper channels of Major Tallmadge, and he knows Hamilton should be privy to some of this information, though he will tell Laurens very little on the subject.  
  
Not that Laurens should have much time to consult Hamilton on these events with much privacy anyhow, for the beginnings of May bring much bustle to camp; Meade is gone several days at a time, delivering specific and important missives between Washington and Congress.  
  
They also receive news they shall soon have a new addition to the aide-de-camp office: a doctor, it seems, one James McHenry. Laurens knows he should have impressed the General with his stoicism under British captivity, and thinks that should be enough for the office to respect him also—though he feels no small part of envy, that this doctor has experienced such grave events as these and distinguished himself with such honour and valour.  
  
Hamilton, of course, takes the news of a new arrival with far less grace, grumbling on how they should not require any further help in their work, regardless that Harrison should point out they are none of them medically trained, and thus McHenry shall provide a skillset they so sorely lack.  
  
“You shall still be the only one of us the General may treat as somewhat of a son, I suspect,” Fitzgerald points out one ill-fated morn, most likely thinking he offers some assurance of the General’s care and respect for Hamilton.  
  
Instead, Hamilton sulks near the entire day, muttering ominously about his not requiring such familiarity between he and the General, until Laurens thinks he may swat him across the face with a particularly stiff letter for his obtuseness on this matter.  
  
It be in moments such as these that Laurens suddenly remembers his own youth, and Hamilton’s further youth, for all his brilliance, for all they have experienced.  
  
  
Lafayette should, in time, appear to forgive Laurens and Hamilton their foolishness—as he insists on naming the incident—though he does take to fondly addressing them collectively as _mes imbéciles_ , which Tilghman, though lacking vital context, should find unbearably hilarious, and so proceeds to translate for all the other aides, until they too begin referring to Laurens and Hamilton either in the French manner, or simply with an affectionate _our fools, our foolish pair_.  
  
Laurens should resent this somewhat, and also should wish to somehow disappear each time Meade should say it, for he alone understands the context behind such a name, and should reassure Laurens with every glance shared that he shall _never_ forget it.  
  
  
Following the resignation of Conway, and the astounding amount of cheer that should rebound through the office at such news as this, Baron von Steuben be officially commissioned by Congress as Inspector General. This a fact Laurens’ father hastens to inform him of, and a tiding the entire encampment should feel great joy at, as the fondness all men feel towards the exuberant Baron should be quite sincere.  
  
With Conway and Mifflin gone, Gates’ influence seems all but evaporated; his own men turning on him. When he attempts to lay much blame at the feet of the unfortunate James Wilkinson, whose careless words of overheard letters first begun this debacle, Wilkinson rails at what he perceives as a slander against his name, and challenges Gates to a duel.  
  
Tall tales spread about camp talk of Gates having wept and apologised for any offence caused; Laurens knows not the truth of such, but ardently hopes it so.  
  
Hamilton, regardless of the truth of this story, seems to enjoy regaling anyone and everyone of the woes of Gates, with increasing dramatic relish each time.  
  
Lafayette, too, enjoys such immensely; the tales of his influence on the matter also grow more incredible in each telling, until it near sounds as though he may have single-handedly challenged all involved to a duel, whilst simultaneously frightening them with personal repercussions from the King of France.  
  
Laurens snorts into the lukewarm ale he cradles upon his knee, the aides having decided to finally hold Lafayette to that reunion around a fire in the second week of May, for a rare night that finds all having finished their tasks, even if Hamilton must be dragged bodily from his.  
  
Lafayette is speaking on how he threatened Congress once more, with Hamilton and Tilghman providing the voices for supporting characters in the tale, staggering more and more as their ale be refilled.  
  
At one point Hamilton impersonates Laurens’ father, and immediately appears rather chastened. Laurens cares not, only making sure to discretely, briefly, lay a hand on Hamilton’s thigh in reassurance of no offence taken, when he regains his seat beside him.  
  
Lafayette, meanwhile, grins widely, swinging his mug around rather alarmingly. “And then I say I shall challenge him to a fencing match, and that should alarm all, for they know they may not best me on this score, _j'étais un mousquetaire noir_.”  
  
There be a short, surprised silence.  
  
“Were you truly?” asks Tilghman with no small air of amazement, as Hamilton rapidly whispers translation for the others.  
  
“ _Oui_ ,” nods Lafayette. “Since I were but _treize ans_. It were mostly…what is the word?” He leans down to whisper in Hamilton’s ear, and Laurens quashes a strange tinge of jealously, for what a truly ridiculous thought that should be.  
  
Hamilton replies softly.  
  
“Ah!” cries Lafayette. “ _Oui_. Mostly ceremonial, as I were young, but later…I should win a fencing match against Conway _très facilement_ , in any case, I think.”  
  
“Certainly, Sir.” Meade smiles lazily, leans back against the tree he has set himself up against. “And I should think you would out fence any of us also.”  
  
Hamilton sits up straighter suddenly, elbow digging painfully into Laurens’ side. “You know how to fence, Meade?”  
  
Tilghman snorts with slightly slurred laughter. “Meade were educated in England, Hamilton, at _Harrow_. Of course he should know how to fence.”  
  
Laurens blinks. For some odd reason, he should never have considered Meade may have moved in the circles of that sort of gentry.  
  
Meade waves a hand, chuckles. “Know how? Yes. Be any good at such? No, I think not.”  
  
Tilghman makes some kind of ridiculous face Laurens did not realise it was possible to make. “It should seem strange if you were so accomplished at it, for all you do not behave a Gentleman.”  
  
Meade pretends some outrage; he and Tilghman tussle for a minute or two before Fitzgerald pokes at them inelegantly with his boot.  
  
“And what of _your_ education, your profession?” Hamilton asks Tilghman suddenly; it seems this a topic he be heavily invested in, and Laurens aches to know more of his past.  
  
“I ran a saddle making business.” Tilghman bows, stumbling in his inebriation. “Which the British saw fit to burn. So considerate of them, I should think.”  
  
“Aye, saddles for my horses!” Meade laughs delightedly. “Though I do not know if they have ever borne Tilghman saddles.”  
  
Tilghman only snorts, stands up straighter. “Hmm. The British and my Goddamned brothers.”  
  
“Pardon?” Laurens attempts to speak over Meade and Lafayette’s further tomfoolery. “Your brothers serve the King?”  
  
Tilghman glares into his ale. “Aye.”  
  
There seems not much more that may be said in response to that, so Laurens should be glad for Lafayette’s next boisterous interruption.  
  
“I presume you know not of fencing, _le petit lion_ , for it being a gentleman’s game?”  
  
Hamilton frowns into the fire, does not reply. He says instead: “I have heard some tale that you tripped in the presence of the French Queen, _Monsieur_?”  
  
Lafayette turns a shade of red Laurens thinks he has not yet witnessed on the dear Marquis afore now. “You—how should you—? Pah, Hamilton! So young were I—”  
  
“I think you seem still young now!” jests Fitzgerald. “You must have yet been a babe!”  
  
As Lafayette splutters, Hamilton smirks to himself; Laurens thinks he has achieved his objective: to turn the conversation from his education.  
  
Someday, Laurens hopes he might solve this mystery.  
  
It seems, however, that Hamilton has so underestimated Lafayette, as the Marquis rapidly recovers himself, and gestures sloppily towards Hamilton with his mug.  
  
“Well, _mon cher_? Do you, or do you not, fence?”  
  
Faced with a far more direct version of this query, Hamilton pulls a face, shifts away from Laurens’ side slightly.  
  
“I do not.”  
  
“Ha!” Lafayette grins rather more delightedly than such a situation should suggest, Laurens thinks, and suddenly feels a little wary, wishes he had partaken in a little less ale.  
  
Lafayette’s keen gaze swings towards him, eyes glinting mischievously in the firelight. “And what of you, _mon cher_ Laurens? Surely you must have learnt the art of fencing.”  
  
Laurens shifts uncomfortably as the eyes of all the other aides fall upon him. “Aye,” he says shortly. “Though I would not call myself particularly talented, for it has been a great while since I practised such.”  
  
“Perhaps you ought to teach Hammie,” Tilghman suggests innocently; the smile that graces Meade’s face at such a proposal, however, should be anything but innocent.  
  
“Ah—” Laurens grimaces, shifts away from Hamilton a little more, attempts to ignore Lafayette’s twinkling eyes. “I do not think it necessary—”  
  
“You do not wish to teach me? You think me a lost cause already?” Hamilton’s tone be light and teasing, but his eyes, when they meet Laurens’, seem strangely dimmed, that same fear of rejection Laurens has so witnessed in him before brimming.  
  
“Of course not,” Laurens snaps, rather more forcefully than be required; ignores the keen glance shared between Lafayette and Meade. “But I see no reason why our time should be taken up by such games, and we have not the blades for it anyhow.”  
  
Tilghman seems to consider him. “We have no work left now this eve, Laurens. Perhaps a demonstration?”  
  
“Did I not just say we have not the blades—”  
  
“I should think sticks may stand for foils, _non_?” Lafayette interrupts. “For they have some bend to them _aussi_.”  
  
“ _Oui_ ,” agrees Laurens, “But—”  
  
Meade smirks ominously, takes a drink from of his ale. “I would think our foolish pair might be well practised at fencing with one another already.”

Laurens near chokes on his drink; Hamilton splutters in a similarly protestive cough.  
  
Tilghman— _God bless the man_ —raises his eyebrows in confusion. “Have we not just established Hammie cannot fence?”  
  
Meade chuckles. “I meant with _words,_ my dear Tilghman; Hamilton should spar with any and all, but such arguments as between he and Laurens should be particularly irate.”  
  
Laurens manages a glare; hope others blame the drink for the colour in his cheeks.  
  
He thinks Meade were not speaking of _words_ at all.  
  
Lafayette looks near to bursting with amusement, and Laurens knows his prediction of lost dignity now these two know of their crimes to be true.  
  
Harrison, who has afore this been drinking in quiet contemplation, eyes flicking between the jesting aides, says suddenly:  
  
“From what I may know of fencing, I think it unwise to try when one may be inebriated.”  
  
“Aye!” Laurens latches onto this with no small amount of relief. “You are quite correct, Sir.”  
  
“Even if the weapons be only sticks?” Hamilton snorts. “I do not think much damage could be wrought there.”  
  
“Even so,” says Harrison sternly. “I do not think it wise.”  
  
Lafayette barely appears to contain an eyeroll. “Ah, _Monsieur_ Harrison, why should you always remember reason?”  
  
Harrison snorts, but he sounds amused. “None else seem to, my dear Marquis, so someone must.”  
  
“Pah!” Lafayette sits down upon the ground in a manner alike to a chastised child. “Well, this demonstration must wait then, _Messieurs_. Perhaps Laurens and I might also duel sometime.”  
  
Laurens shakes his head. “I think you may best me easily, Marquis.”  
  
“Hmm.” Lafayette regards him softly, eyes flicking between he and Hamilton, before seeming to check if any others listen.  
  
They do not appear to.  
  
Lafayette lowers his voice. “I think I may best you, Laurens, that true. But I think it is not I you would best like to duel.” He winks very quickly, shuffles closer to Hamilton, leans in and murmurs something which causes Hamilton’s eyes to widen, and his fingers to tighten around his drink.  
  
Lafayette grins smugly, then rises and crosses in front of them, seems to begin reciting some French poem to an increasingly bewildered Fitzgerald.  
  
“What did he so say?” hisses Laurens in alarm.  
  
Hamilton leans in; the heat of his breath against Laurens’ neck causes him to shiver. “He said if we were to duel, we might wish to ensure we do so out of the public eye.”  
  
Laurens jolts back, sends a glare Lafayette’s way, though the Frenchman does not notice.  
  
Hamilton huffs slightly, pats Laurens’ shoulder as he, too, stands, if unsteadily. “He may tease us incessantly, but I do not think he should be wrong.”  
  
Laurens watches Hamilton stagger back towards the aides’ cabin, mouth dry. He shakes his head rapidly, wills any and all indecent imaginings out of his mind.

***

James McHenry, their newest aide, arrives in camp on the fifteenth day of May. The office immediately shuffles round so as to accommodate him; another desk is dragged through the corridor and shoved into the already crowded room.  
  
After much urging, Harrison takes one desk to himself; being Washington’s Military Secretary this only seems proper, even if he be reluctant to pull rank. In any case, Gibbs should sometimes join him more regularly now.  
  
Hamilton and Laurens remain sharing one; Meade and Tilghman another, even though Fitzgerald jests all may work more efficient if they did not.  
  
That should leave Fitzgerald to work beside McHenry, which he seems to mind not at all.  
  
“Both us Irishmen together, then,” he points out, which, Laurens realises with some dismay, he had not even realised Fitzgerald Irish.  
  
Of course, his name should suggest such, and Laurens now makes it is business to listen more thoroughly. Though greatly diluted, there be an element of accent to his speech, and Laurens thinks perhaps he ought to take some chance to acquaint himself better with the man, for him being one of the quieter of their number.  
  
Harrison rides out on the morn of the fifteenth with the General to meet McHenry, leaving the other aides behind to gossip in his wake; a perhaps unwise choice.  
  
“For a man his age, McHenry seems to have accomplished much,” Tilghman abruptly begins; an invitation for the others to down quills and seize onto the conversation.  
  
“How old should he be?” asks Hamilton curiously, with an almost… _resentful_ tone.  
  
“Not yet five and twenty, I believe.” That Fitzgerald. “Closer in years to you both, Hamilton and Laurens, than the rest of us, I should think.”  
  
This only serves to seemingly dampen Hamilton’s mood further.  
  
“I very much doubt,” Laurens murmurs softly. “That this should lessen the General’s esteem for you at all.”  
  
“But a _doctor_ ,” grumbles Hamilton; a little loud, perhaps, for Meade’s eyes flick towards them. “A doctor, and a soldier, and a released prisoner of war. Far more to recommend him than any of us.”  
  
“Speak for yourself only, Sir.” Meade has apparently caught the tail-end of their whispered conversation. “I have much to recommend _me_.”  
  
“If we were in the business of recommending theatrical entertainers, then perhaps that would be so,” snipes Tilghman; Meade responds by flicking ink at his face.  
  
Fitzgerald chuckles. “I think McHenry may be rather confused if he introduced to a man with ink on his nose in the manner of a small boy who has yet to master his quill, and this supposedly an aide to the Commander-in-Chief.”  
  
Tilghman shakes a jesting fist at Meade, swipes at the ink on his face, which unfortunately serves only to smear it. “Perhaps I shall swap with Hammie, and then you may both infuriate one another directly, leaving the rest of us to blissful productive peace.”  
  
Meade only shakes his head, smirks. “I think Laurens and Hamilton rather too fond of one another to swap seats.”  
  
Hamilton opens his mouth; Laurens stomps on his foot under the desk.  
  
Hamilton sends a glare; Laurens shakes his head.  
  
There be no use retaliating to Meade’s remarks, as such should only encourage him to tease further, Laurens suspects.

  
McHenry seems to settle into the office fairly well; he appears a pleasant, intelligent sort of man, with a nose that scoops upwards a little at the end, and a fair complexion. He possesses a musical Irish accent, and is also, as Fitzgerald said, of an age with Laurens and Hamilton, though still slightly senior to them.  
  
As Laurens himself once were, he at first seems rather confused by the cutting banter of the aides, not entirely sure whether one may be truly offended or no.  
  
Laurens should sympathise, for only now be he not the newest aide in this office, but he far too distracted by Hamilton’s disagreeable temperament to really offer McHenry over much.   
  
One morn, perhaps a day or two after McHenry commences his duties, though he still in the probationary period of correspondence writing as Laurens were all those months ago, finds Meade conducting a spirited conversation with the new aide across the office, as Hamilton interjects with increasingly loud snorts.  
  
“And you were not given leave to treat them?” Meade is querying as Laurens sighs and places quill down, decides he may as well listen now.  
  
“No,” McHenry replies; his tone is hard and tight. “For I were a prisoner also. And we were not—”  
  
“You say you wrote many reports to this affect?” Tilghman appears to have been paying better attention to the conversation than Laurens.  
  
McHenry seems to deflate somewhat. “Aye; as I said. What I observed indicated the British gave very little care to the medical complaints of their prisoners, and what treatment they did supply was entirely inadequate.”  
  
“But none responded to your reports?” Meade again, sounding both curious and saddened.  
  
McHenry shakes his head. “Mostly not, though I know the General received at least two of my letters. In truth, I—I very much doubt many survived to be read.”  
  
“But this should be a reason you so impressed the General in your captivity?” Laurens is not entirely sure what possesses him to ask, but he finds himself curious, forces himself to ignore Hamilton’s fingernails biting vindictively into his thigh.  
  
McHenry colours a little; it seems his fair complexion affords him the same issues with embarrassment as Laurens. He clears his throat. “I think so, aye. And I am…honoured by his attention.”  
  
Meade grins. “Well, I should think we may have great need of you! None of us here yet possess any medical experience, and Laurens does seem rather partial to hitting his head, and acquiring many other such injuries.”  
  
Laurens chuckles despite himself. “Such slander, Sir! You would make me sound a fool.”  
  
Meade raises his eyebrows, smirks knowingly. “Are you not?”  
  
The question appears a trap ready to be sprung, so Laurens avoids it. “Hmm. I might add that I have studied some medicine also.”  
  
He thinks fondly of his lists of native plants, languishing unrecited for some time, and his old anatomy textbooks, that which he wishes he could have been afforded the opportunity to study in Europe.  
  
Hamilton appears to startle. “You have, Sir?”  
  
Laurens be uncomfortably reminded of all other things that lie unshared between them. He clears his throat nervously. “Aye. Not formally, and a while back. I had wished to study it in Europe but my—well. There were other plans in motion.”  
  
Hamilton blinks. He retracts his hand from where it lies hidden upon Laurens’ thigh. Laurens thinks he may sense irritation, but does not believe this fair. He should have hidden many things from Hamilton, this true, but Hamilton has so offered very little in return.  
  
He realises that though he truly, deeply, loves Hamilton—and that he is sure of, though he may be sure of little else—he also knows still so very little of Hamilton’s past.  
  
“What did you so study instead of medicine, then, Laurens?” McHenry asks, clearly completely oblivious to Meade’s insinuations and Hamilton’s mood.  
  
“The Law.” Laurens does not mean his reply to sound so snappish, but cannot help it.  
  
“Ah,” says McHenry. “Well. A very useful profession indeed.”  
  
Laurens only hums. “I certainly should have preferred to be a doctor as you, Sir.”  
  
McHenry flushes again, smiles. “I thank you. Also, as I have you attention, may I ask—”  
  
He proceeds to rattle off several questions on the nature of the letter reply he struggles through; the other aides return to their work as Laurens patiently answers McHenry’s queries, sympathising somewhat with Fitzgerald, who left not twenty minutes ago to seek coffee, and has yet to return.  
  
McHenry shall make a thorough aide, but he may query their ears off in the process.  
  
Their conversation should be reaching its natural end, when Hamilton suddenly interjects:  
  
“One might suppose a doctor ought to be able to reason through much of this alone.”  
  
There is a short, awkward silence.  
  
“Hamilton,” reprimands Harrison. “That were unfair. I distinctly remember, when first you begun, you—”  
  
“I think I may find where Fitzgerald has ended up, lest he has somehow drowned in his coffee,” Hamilton snaps in response, interrupting what unflattering reminiscence Harrison were about to conjure up. He stands abruptly, chair grating against the floor harshly, and stalks from the room.  
  
Laurens blinks once, then slumps. Hamilton’s short temper since McHenry’s arrival grows worse, it seems, and if he does not cease it soon, Laurens may be forced into having words on this childish behaviour.  
  
“I did not mean…” McHenry trails away. “To cause offence?”  
  
Tilghman shakes his head. “You will find Hammie’s mood rapidly changeable. He be brilliant but…distant, sometimes.”  
  
“To any but Laurens it may seem,” Meade adds, and Laurens would protest, except that Meade does not seem to tease, but instead appears to entreat: that Laurens may use his influence to remedy this newest problem.  
  
Laurens wonders if he may, for he does not truly understand the issue, but that it be perhaps tied to Hamilton’s constant plaguing fears of inadequacy, however unfounded.

  
Once it reaches past noon, and Fitzgerald has so returned with no mention of having seen Hamilton, Laurens decides with no small amount of annoyance that enough should be enough. He leaves the office with only a nod from Harrison, the others all being elbow deep in paper, and Meade having left to deliver some missive.  
  
Laurens wanders round the camp and surrounding woods, leisurely at first, and then with increasing pace.  
  
Surely Hamilton cannot have gone particularly far in his sulk?  
  
He is suddenly reminded of Lafayette’s warning on Hamilton’s sulking when first they were acquainted, and laughs softly.  
  
The breeze against Laurens’ face be light and pleasant, and he realises with a start just how close summer may be now; green leaves of trees he has no name for whispering in the air, delicate flowers underfoot.  
  
Has truly so much time passed since he joined this army, this cause? Since first he met Hamilton? It seems both impossible and inevitable, as though somehow this were always meant to be, despite such hardships as still line this path, despite the thunderclouds that still gather at the horizon of his thoughts, waiting for some fault in the window pane to seep through.  
  
Laurens glances downwards, and notices a fairly solid branch of white oak on the ground.  
_  
Quercus alba_ , his memorisation supplies, for it a an oak native to his childhood home. He stoops to pick it up, runs his fingers over the knots, remembers playing in the gardens of his home, when it still felt like a home. He twirls it through his hands, feels its weight, recalls using such branches to spar with his brothers, and be so caught in this sudden recollection of childhood that he near forgets he means to find Hamilton until he almost falls over him, sitting up against a tree.  
  
The sun falls on Hamilton’s hair _just so_ , and Laurens feels his chest clench; how one might possibly contain such care for another and manage to live under its weight seems near impossible.  
  
Hamilton be writing furiously upon his travel desk; though he shirks the office, it seems he does not shirk his duties, which surprises Laurens not one bit.  
  
“Hamilton?”  
  
Hamilton makes no sign of having heard his approach; Laurens rolls his eyes, for what if he were some British patrol? What should Hamilton do then?  
  
He glances down at the stick he has acquired on his walk. Would it seem so very bad to…give Hamilton some small fright?  
  
Perhaps.  
  
But he determines to do so anyhow.  
  
As stealthily as he may, Laurens treads lightly through the fallen foliage, turning right instead of moving straight forwards, intending to approach from behind. He wields the stick in the same manner as one might wield a sword, though it would be far less fatal if someone were to meet it.  
  
Hamilton has still not glanced upwards once, and Laurens wonders whether he truly does not notice him, or only pretends.  
  
It matters not, for in two more short strides Laurens has positioned himself in a lunge, stick nudging light against Hamilton’s throat.  
  
Hamilton freezes immediately, quill stilled against his page, eyes agitatedly darting sideways. His shoulders appear to relax ever so slightly when he realises who confronts him.  
  
“ _John_.” His tone sounds incredibly exasperated.  
  
“ _Alexander_.” Laurens parrots, mimics the exact same tone.  
  
Hamilton’s fingers tap against his travel desk. “Could you perhaps withdraw your…stick?” He sounds vaguely amused now, if still irritated.  
  
“Hmm.” Laurens steps a little closer. “No, I think not.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“No. You are lucky, Sir, that it should only be I, and not some British, for all the attention you paid my approach.”  
  
“You think I do not recognise your presence, Jack?” Hamilton snorts. “I should have moved if I thought you suddenly British.”  
  
Laurens glares, only tightens his hold on the stick, pokes Hamilton’s neck a little harder. Hamilton winces.  
  
“I think you just cannot admit when you are wrong.” Laurens’ tone be sterner than he means, but the sentiment no less true for it.  
  
“When I am wrong?” Hamilton attempts to swat at the stick; Laurens holds it fast. “When were I—John, _stop_.”  
  
Laurens does not move. “Cease being so childish and return with me to headquarters.”  
  
Hamilton raises his eyebrows, moves his neck slightly away from the stick. “Childish, am I? I am not the one of us wielding a branch as a sword.”  
  
Laurens only rolls his eyes. “Oh, but deliberately jibing McHenry for his not knowing things which none of us knew at first, that not childish?”  
  
“I am certain you knew such things quicker.”  
  
“I am certain I did not.” Laurens lowers the stick very slightly. “And I think you only mock him as you are jealous.”  
  
Hamilton’s cheeks flush; he places the travel desk down on the ground beside him, glares upwards.  
  
“Jealous?" His voice turns to anger. "And why should you suppose such unflattering things of me?"  
  
Laurens huffs, finally lowers the stick. He sighs. “McHenry has won clear regard from the General, and quickly; that the first strike against him on your list, I should imagine. And he—” He pauses a moment, watches Hamilton’s face for some trace of how he may feel, but his expression remains set. Laurens falters. “He—I spoke to him of things I have not revealed as yet to you, and I should think…”  
  
“Oh?” says Hamilton, eyes tight. “You should think—what?”  
  
“I should think…you were resentful of that, and it enough for you vent your frustration upon him, when I think you may mean to direct it at me. And that were badly done, Sir.”  
  
Hamilton suddenly vaults to his feet, eyes flashing dangerously; stalks closer, soft and yet menacing.  
  
“You wish I would vent my anger at you, is that is?”  
  
Laurens flounders, near raises the stick again. “No, I—I wish you were not angered at all, for I do not understand why. Aye, the General should value McHenry, but I truly think there be none he values more than you—as Fitzgerald has so said, it seems he near considers you akin to a son.”  
  
Hamilton steps back a little, hands curling into loose fists. “My own father did not want for me, Laurens, and I do not want for another. I care not whether the General should value McHenry more or less than I, and I do not see why you should think that at all.”  
  
Laurens manages to restrain himself from rolling his eyes; folds the likely accidental comment about Hamilton’s father away for address at some other time, when it less apt to scare him away from conversation.  
  
It should be most definitely clear to all how desperately Hamilton wishes for the General’s approval, whilst simultaneously maintaining he does not.  
  
Laurens decides he shall let one falsehood be, but not the other. “You do not address whether you should feel…jealous or no.”  
  
“Of what?” Hamilton’s face be set, stubborn. It clear he shall not make such a conversation easy.  
  
Laurens clears his throat uneasily. “As I so said, I spoke of things we two have not yet spoken between us, and it seemed—”  
  
“Oh, aye.” Hamilton sounds taut, sarcastic. He unfurls his hands, gestures helplessly. “Aye, I should dislike such, for we are lovers, are we not, and yet I realise much still lies unsaid between us, and I wonder how much else should be hidden—”  
  
Perhaps it be the guilt on the awful things that _do_ remain hidden that causes Laurens to lash out, the ever simmering lack of restraint bursting forth. “Oh, and you do not think such a statement hypocritical? I know nothing of you either, Sir, truly, but what I have gleaned near accidentally! Near nothing of your past, of your life, of your—”  
  
“And I nothing of yours!” Hamilton stalks closer again, looks as though he may strike. “But that you educated in Europe, and your father the President of Congress! And of this _Francis_ whom you say does not—”  
  
“ _Do not speak of him_!” Laurens realises he has raised the stick again, holds it to Hamilton’s throat once more, heartbeat thundering as though a charging cavalry attacks his ears. This simmering strange mistrust, this lack of much truly known, why is should appear _now_ he knows not, but it only lays fuel to the slowly building pyre that all this seems destined towards.  
  
“God, Hamilton, I love only _you_ , why must we continually—”  
  
“Enough to tell me, truly, why you fled Europe so speedily? Were so determined to join this fight against your father’s wishes?”  
  
Laurens gapes, feels cold all over, rage turning to shock, and then numbed ice. “I…have told you many times. I believe in this fight, in _our_ fight, in this nation; in the idea of finding honour, and valour, in sacrifice for ideals, and—”  
  
Hamilton raises his throat, near presses the stick against his soft skin, as though he almost dares Laurens to attempt a graze. “Hmm. I think that not the whole of it.”  
_  
Lord, no, but this be an opening, and he could say, he could explain_ —  
  
But instead he says—  
  
“And why are you here, then, Alexander, and not still in the Caribbean?”  
  
Hamilton’s mouth shuts with a speed Laurens has never yet witnessed from him.  
  
“Well, then.” Laurens murmurs bitterly. “All men have secrets, it seems.”  
  
Hamilton glares. “Not all men take the man in question to bed.”  
  
Laurens blinks. Flushes. Sighs deeply. “Alexander—”  
  
“Do I speak untrue?”  
  
“Nay, but you twist my words—”  
  
“Do I?” Hamilton’s eyes glint oddly. “I think perhaps sometimes it seems that be all I am good for.”  
  
“Christ, Hamilton!” Laurens feels like screaming at the sky, wishes for storm clouds to gather and use his words if only to make this point stronger. “How many must tell you how valued your talents are, how useful you may be to this cause, how _essential_ —”  
  
Hamilton tilts his head. “As many times as one must beat the exact same thought into your head also, I suspect.”  
  
Laurens rears back; to have his own words turned against him in this manner, when he were only trying to assist, particularly when they not untrue, this somehow slices his soul into fraying pieces.  
  
“I know where I may find myself most useful, and it not in the office.”  
  
“No.” Hamilton slumps. “I suspect you think it should be on the field.”  
  
“Aye—”  
  
“Where I may lose you. Be that your aim?”  
  
Laurens stills. “No, I—”  
  
“For if I knew no better, I may think your ardent wish towards _s_ _acrifice_ may reflect your want to be free of me.”  
  
“Alexander, that should be patently and utterly _untrue_ —”  
  
And suddenly, somehow, Hamilton also has some stick, though it not quite so sturdy, and he jabs it into Laurens’ chest.  
  
Laurens chokes off a near hysterical laugh. “Why Hamilton, do you mean to duel me to settle this matter?”  
  
Hamilton’s eyes widen, as though he not entirely sure how he came to be in this position either. “I—hmm. It has already been established I know not how to duel. You simply—infuriate me.”  
  
Laurens snorts. “The sentiment should be entirely mutual.”  
  
Hamilton jabs the stick again, though only lightly. “Well. One may love another and also find them infuriating, I imagine.”  
  
Laurens shrugs, or as well as one may shrug holding a stick to another’s throat anyhow. “Aye. I am…sorry.”  
  
Hamilton smiles slightly. “Hmm. As am I. I—do not deal with competing affections well.”  
  
“Competing—?” Laurens huffs a quiet laugh. “McHenry shall not be… _competing_ for my affections anytime soon, _mon cher imbécile_.”  
  
Hamilton raises his eyebrows. “I believe I prefer ‘ _my dear boy_ ’, Jack.”  
  
“Ha.” Laurens shakes his head. “The first be more fitting at this moment, I think.” He pauses a second, then recklessly blurts out: “I could teach you?”  
  
“Pardon?” Hamilton lowers the stick, finally. “Teach me what?”  
  
Laurens also removes his stick from Hamilton’s throat. “To fence. The basics, at least.”  
  
Hamilton frowns. “You do not think we ought return—?”  
  
“I am sure we may be spared a little while longer. In any case, the Marquis did suggest such; I may simply say I were following the suggestion of a Major General, superior in rank to I.”  
  
Hamilton chuckles. “Aye; I see my tactic towards twisting words, as you say, seeps into your own methods.”  
  
Laurens shrugs. “I believe the mannerisms of those one loves may leave some mark upon one, _oui?_ ”  
  
Hamilton’s eyes widen strangely. “ _Oui_ , I think I should—I should like to believe that true.”  
  
“Aye.” Laurens waves the stick rather glibly. “So? You seemed rather offended when you thought I would not teach you before.”  
  
“Hmm.” Hamilton appears suddenly rather playful. “Well, I were—I were only teasing you, my dear. But I am afraid, as Lafayette so said, that this be a gentlemen’s game, and you, at least, know I am no gentlemen.”  
  
Though the phrase may sound self-pitying, Hamilton’s tone be anything but. If a tone of voice could smirk and flirt and bat its eyelashes, his would be doing so now, at this moment.  
  
Laurens shifts, unsteady all of a sudden. “Then I suppose I shall make one of you.”  
  
He does not mean this to be innuendo as such, but as he sees the sudden flush grow upon Hamilton’s cheeks, he wonders whether this suggested lesson should be a good idea after all.  
  
“Oh,” says Hamilton, smirks. “You shall, shall you? This I should like to see.”  
  
“Hmm.” Laurens gestures almost desperately with the stick he has acquired; tries to guide them back to the topic at hand. He moves into a lunge position, right foot forward, arm outstretched but held loosely. “ _En garde_.”  
  
Hamilton snorts. “Am I to stand as that?”  
  
Laurens rolls his eyes. “ _Oui_ , else why would I do it? I aim to teach you the basics, so we begin.”  
  
Hamilton sighs, moves to copy Laurens.  
  
“Now.” Laurens gestures with the stick. “Your left foot must not come forward.”  
  
Hamilton sighs. “I must move in this strange position, then?”  
  
Laurens nods. “Aye. You may advance—” He demonstrates such, moving in a lunging step forward, heel first, left foot remaining behind. “—And retreat, as so, if I were to advance on you.” The same manoeuvre, but moving backwards once more.  
  
Hamilton grins. “I would never retreat if you were to advance on me, Jack.”  
  
Laurens waves his stick. “Oh, hush. ’Tis fencing, not flirting.”  
  
“Can it not be one and the same?”  
  
“ _Alexander_.”  
  
Hamilton makes a motion of surrender, so Laurens thinks he may continue. “To attack, the most basic methods are named lunge, parry and riposte.”  
  
“Aye.” Hamilton nods. “I have heard such.”  
  
Laurens demonstrates a lunge then, twig held outwards as though he means to touch Hamilton’s chest.  
  
“If I were to do this, you might parry to prevent my attack.” Now, he demonstrates a parry, where one blocks the opponent’s weapon in a slicing motion.  
  
Hamilton grins. “Forgive me, Sir, but this appears rather comical with a tree branch.”  
  
Laurens resumes _en garde_. “Well, I have no foils to use. In any case, you seemed well enough alarmed when it were at your throat.”  
  
Hamilton chuckles. “Aye, well. It were sharper than I supposed.”  
  
“Ha.” Laurens rolls his eyes, continues: “Once I, or you, have parried, the riposte is a counterattack by the one who parries.” He again demonstrates, twirling the stick—though not as elegantly as might be managed with a foil—and then gesturing in a stabbing motion.  
  
Hamilton nods; he now appears to be thinking. “I think I may manage these simple moves. How does one win?”  
  
“By scoring the most points, which be achieved by a touch of the foil—stick—to the opponent’s chest.”  
  
Hamilton frowns. “Only the chest?”  
  
“Aye. Face, arms, wrists, thighs—any touch there earns a penalty.”  
  
“And a penalty consists of—?” Hamilton glances quizzically at his stick. “I think it strange I may not simply strike at any opening.”  
  
Laurens shrugs. “It be a game, Hamilton, not a true fight. And a penalty should quite often consist of a monetary fine.”  
  
“Hmm.” Hamilton seems to be considering something; this not always a good thing. “Must it always be monetary?”  
  
“Ah…no. It does not have to be.”  
  
Hamilton grins. “Perhaps a penalty, then…may be a stolen kiss?”  
  
Laurens knows he likely appears exasperated. “No, it may not, for then you shall be doing so purposely I am sure.”  
  
“You read me too well.” Hamilton pretends a pout. “But since I…lack, somewhat, in funds, and I suspect I may bear the burden of these penalties, perhaps I may suggest one must repair a torn item of clothing for the other instead.”  
  
This seems a fair enough exchange. “Aye.”  
  
“And the winning prize?”  
  
Laurens grins. “Honour? Glory?”  
  
“I have a much greater idea, Sir.” Hamilton’s eyes glint teasingly. “But I shall not reveal it ’till a winner becomes apparent.”  
  
That sounds…vaguely ominous, but Laurens consents. “In a usual bout, one also does not speak, else incur another penalty.”  
  
A strange look slides over Hamilton’s face; he steps a small bit closer to Laurens.  
  
“You know I have never been much good at remaining silent.” The tone Hamilton uses, the way he slightly drops his eyelids, these things be suddenly very much reminiscent of him conceding to Laurens’ will in the office that night before his departure near a month ago.  
  
Laurens finds his mouth quite dry, speaks before he has even thought. “Then I shall simply have to _make you_.” He does not recognise his voice as he replies, so low and commanding as it should seem, but the effect upon Hamilton is immediate.  
  
His mouth snaps closed as he obligingly ceases speaking; his pupils, when Laurens meets his gaze, appear dilated. He swallows forcefully; Laurens finds himself drawn to watching his throat bob with an odd hunger.  
  
Laurens steps back hurriedly, takes up an _en garde_ position; tries desperately to pretend this truly only some simple fencing lesson once more.  
  
They begin slow, Laurens more demonstrating and allowing Hamilton to rebuff than actually fighting in any capacity, which appears to frustrate Hamilton somewhat, as he begins to strike out more wildly, narrowly missing Laurens’ face and striking his upper arm.  
  
Laurens darts back. “A penalty.”  
  
Hamilton glares. “That hardly fair, for it were a damned accident—”  
  
Laurens grins. “Another penalty, for cursing, Sir.”  
  
Hamilton gapes. “You—” He lunges forward, nearly catches Laurens by surprise; Laurens be forced into actual action to stop him.  
  
Hamilton glares. “I think this truly a gentleman’s game, for only a gentleman may create such a Godforsaken, foolish—”  
  
Laurens parries, attempts to sneak through Hamilton’s guard, but Hamilton, stubborn, moves to block, and suddenly their respective tree branches be pressed against each other’s, for they have not the bend of true foils, and Laurens finds himself rather close to Hamilton’s glaring face.  
  
“I think I instructed you to remain silent.”  
  
Hamilton bares his teeth. “And I think I told you to _make me_.”  
  
At this tone, this challenge, a hungered heat suddenly sparks through Laurens’ veins; he near growls, shoves Hamilton backwards, suddenly abandons any pretence of proper fencing technique and etiquette.  
  
Hamilton stumbles with clear surprise, forced into defending against proper blows, methods he be more practised with.  
  
“Laurens—” he begins, but Laurens only presses forward, attempts to press closer, catch Hamilton unguarded.  
  
Hamilton’s face shifts, until he grinning in a near feral manner. He begins to defend more aggressively, and then Laurens be surprised by a swift kick to his shin.  
  
He jumps backwards. “ _Hamilton_! If that not a penalty, I know not what may be.”  
  
Hamilton shrugs. “I see none here to enforce such but you, and you seem not that adroit.”  
  
Laurens gapes, fury spiking, but still mixed with some strange, starved desire, and he leaps forward before Hamilton may regain proper position, presses the flat of his stick against Hamilton’s throat, realises he has backed him up against a tree.  
  
Hamilton stares back defiantly, lifts his chin, near presses up against the stick so that it digs into the soft skin above his cravat. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes wide and darkened; strands of fiery hair begin to escape their queue.  
  
“I think,” Hamilton manages to say against the clear pressure on his throat, “That you still have not bested me, Sir, nor silenced me.”  
  
His eyes seem to dare Laurens to contradict this, to prove him wrong; his arms sit loose at his sides, hand barely still clutching the stick.  
  
Laurens realises Hamilton stands with his legs slightly spread, watches as Hamilton’s gaze seems to rove up and down his body, breath hot against his face.  
  
Laurens wonders if—he steps closer so that their bodies are near flush, stick pressing just that little bit firmer.  
  
He expects Hamilton to protest, to concede the match won, but instead Hamilton only grins near madly, drops his stick, hands instead raising to rest lightly on Laurens’ hips.  
  
“A...penalty,” Laurens manages to croak out.  
  
“Oh,” murmurs Hamilton, sounding near breathless. “Well. If you be awarding penalties, the game is still to be won.”  
  
“Pick up your weapon, then, Sir.” Laurens can barely hear his own words for the rush of desire ravaging through his limbs.  
  
Hamilton very minutely shakes his head. “I think not,” he whispers. “For I am quite content where I am.”  
  
Laurens thinks he ought to move back again if they are to resume this contest, but he be kept locked in place by Hamilton’s eyes, Hamilton’s lips, Hamilton’s stuttered breath against the pressure of the stick.  
  
Involuntarily, he dares to press just a tiny part more, and Hamilton lets out a startled moan at the increased pressure.  
  
Laurens’ breath catches in his throat.  
  
Their gazes lock; Laurens realises Hamilton is trembling somewhat, legs definitely spread now.  
  
“Laurens,” he mutters. “ _Please_.”  
  
Laurens finally finds his limbs may remember life; he drops the damn stick to the ground.  
  
For a moment, neither moves, until Hamilton, very slowly, traces his hand up Laurens’ side, grasps Laurens’ hand, presses it very lightly against his throat.  
  
“ _Please_ ,” he near whimpers, and that it; Laurens forgets all pretence of this having been a fencing match at all.  
  
He pushes forward, leaves his hand lightly against the soft, warm skin of Hamilton’s throat, fingers wrapped but only applying loose pressure, as their mouths connect in a frenzied, heated kiss.  
  
Hamilton seems to be desperate for more than this, however, hands fluttering against Laurens’ side, running up and over his neck, tangling in his hair, yanking roughly, before repeating. He pulls Laurens closer, so that he seems squashed between he and the tree, pulls and pushes at him until Laurens realises what he so wants, and shoves his thigh between Hamilton’s legs, allowing him the friction he so apparently and ardently desires.  
  
Laurens, meanwhile, occupies himself with the soft skin of Hamilton’s neck, tugging insistently at his cravat, trading sloppy, open-mouthed kisses for teeth and tongue, teasing moans and hisses from Hamilton’s pretty mouth.  
  
Suddenly, Hamilton pulls away, slides out of the reach of Laurens’ thigh, Laurens’ attentive mouth.  
  
He smirks up at him.  
  
“Shall I tell you what I had supposed might be offered the winner of our game?”  
  
Laurens, still caught in a heady rush, may only blink. “Ah—what?”  
  
Hamilton grins hungrily, eyes darkening further, if this even possible. He sinks to his knees slowly. “I think I shall show you instead.”  
  
Laurens thinks he may not ever survive any mention of fencing by any ever again without picturing Hamilton gazing hungrily up at him from his knees.  
  


***

  
Though he does not yet know it, the twentieth of May brings Laurens into meeting with a man whom he and Hamilton should eventually grow to know great hatred for.  
  
At present, Laurens and the other aides, bar Meade, who has been sent as escort, wait outside Potts’ House, straining for a glimpse of the recently paroled General Charles Lee.  
  
The manner in which they wait creates a scene reminiscent of Baron von Steuben’s arrival, but the feel to their mood seems far different, the excited anticipation of the Baron’s arrival something far more tepid at the prospect of Lee’s.  
  
Whilst his capture and subsequent captivity by the British have made him something of a figure amongst the enlisted men, who line camp for his arrival, the regard held for Lee privately within the aides’ office be less, though they careful not to speak too harshly, lest the General reprimand them.  
  
Laurens does not think Washington holds particularly high regard for Lee either, but he be far too polite to say so, and also respects Lee on the merits of his rank and experience.  
  
Laurens knows he ought to as well, but he already soured on him by some comment McHenry makes.  
  
“Were I allowed to return to service so rapidly after being paroled, I would have been called a British sycophant.”  
  
McHenry appears to say such in jest, for he not a bitter personality, and whilst he should seem unlikely to mean this sentiment as anything other than a joke, such should stick in Laurens’ mind in a rather ugly manner.  
  
Lee were only recently paroled from captivity in Philadelphia, and yet already he receives allowance to return to military service before being fully exchanged, and as Washington’s second-in-command no less.  
  
It took McHenry near a year to be allowed such a return. Laurens has heard some whispers of Lee being well liked within British society—most of these from the mouth of Hamilton, likely via Tallmadge’s work—but nothing that would deem him irretrievably a traitor or some such, unfortunately.  
  
He also sounds unlike a man best suited to subterfuge, but his quick return in this manner already grates against Laurens’ ideals of proving one’s merit by hard-work, no matter their station.  
  
“Do you suppose they shall arrive soon?” Tilghman asks, fidgets with his hat, glances back towards the house.  
  
“I suspect we may hear when they do,” Harrison points out. “For the men seem in a mood like to cheer upon his arrival.”  
  
Tilghman grimaces. “I have urgent correspondence to attend to; I do not suppose—”  
  
“No,” Harrison says quietly, but sternly. “I am sure they shall appear soon.”  
  
“Tilghman may not be much missed,” Hamilton teases cheerfully. “For I doubt Lee should much notice his presence either way.”  
  
McHenry glances between them, clearly still unsure in the face of such banter. “I am sure your presence should be missed.”  
  
Tilghman snorts. “I thank you kindly, but I wish it would not be.”  
  
McHenry laughs in surprise, then presses his lips together, glancing at Harrison.  
  
Harrison rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Never fear, I have learnt to ignore most of what escapes Tilghman’s mouth.”  
  
“What do you suppose Lee to be like?” Laurens mutters to Hamilton, as Tilghman splutters some nonsense about insults to his character.  
  
“A Gentleman,” says Hamilton shortly; however, the manner in which he says _Gentleman_ implies something entirely opposite.  
  
A far shout goes up, likely near the very edge of camp, and Harrison darts inside briefly to alert the General, who strides out of the house to take his place at the forefront of their little greeting party.  
  
Eventually, Laurens spies Gibbs approaching, for he rides at the head of the Life Guards, and also Meade, whose expression as he nears them Laurens may almost call _exasperated_. He wonders at the cause.  
  
Aside from Meade’s odd expression, the other strange thing Laurens quickly observes is the dogs following the party, of which there are several.  
  
Laurens, as one who loves learning of nature, and drawing animals, should be as fond of dogs as any other animal, and likely fonder of them than some men.  
  
However, the nature of owning this many dogs and bringing them into a war encampment feels just a tad odd, particularly when Laurens knows Lee to be in possession of a fairly large estate.  
  
Lee himself rides with Meade on one side, and with one who appears likely an aide-de-camp of his on the other. He seems rather portly in appearance, a surprise, surely, after having been a captive of the British. He has a rather wide, round face and plump lips; all in all, he seems not much to look at, and rather foppish, if the extremely new look to his uniform be anything to go by.  
  
Not a particularly positive impression, but Laurens supposes he ought not to judge until he should become properly acquainted with the man.   
  
A quick glance at Hamilton causes him to near lose his composure, for Hamilton has a look of badly hidden incredulity on his face.  
  
“ _This_ should be General Charles Lee?” he hisses, and Laurens hastens to shush him, flicks him lightly on the back of his hand.  
  
Hamilton makes a face. “I hope we find him lodging soon, for I do not want him in this house over long.”  
  
Laurens silently agrees, but— “Hush!”  
  
The travelling party finally reaches those waiting in greeting; Gibbs and his men hurriedly dismounting, servants and slaves hastening for horses.  
  
Meade near vaults from his horse, which should seem entirely unusual, as at home as he should usually appear on the back of one of his beloved mounts, but the reason for such haste—and also his persistent exasperated expression—soon becomes clear.  
  
Held under one of Meade’s arms appears yet _another_ dog, of the small yapping variety; some sort of German Spritz, Laurens guesses.  
  
General Lee, who has now also dismounted, gestures for the dog, before even greeting Washington.  
  
His Excellency makes no motion of this being strange, but that a muscle in his cheek twitches an ever so small amount.  
  
“Come here, Spada,” General Lee near coos, and Meade all but shoves the dog at him.  
  
As Lee begins speaking to Washington, Laurens meets Meade’s eye.  
  
Meade shakes his head, comes to stand beside Laurens, leans into his ear.  
  
“If you desire to make so much as one jest on this subject, you might wish to recall what ammunition I also hold.”  
  
Laurens smirks, elbows him. “Why should I jest? You seemed a near paternal presence to that... _S_ _pada_.”  
  
Before Meade may respond to this, however, Washington has begun introducing the aides-de-camp to Lee.  
  
“Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton,” Washington is saying, gesturing at Hamilton, who shakes Lee’s hand firmly.  
  
He has somehow managed to wipe the antipathy off his face, but Laurens notices how brief the handshake, how quickly Hamilton brushes his palm carefully over his breeches afterwards.  
  
“John Laurens,” Washington then says, and Laurens startles to attention, mutters greeting, grasps Lee’s clammy hand.  
  
“Henry Laurens’ son?” Lee asks quickly.  
  
With a barely contained sigh, Laurens nods. “Aye, Sir.”  
  
Lee smiles; Laurens does not know why, but he dislikes such immensely. “Remember me in your letters to him; Congress should be pleased to know I have arrived.”  
  
“Aye,” Laurens nods tersely. He has no intention of doing any such thing.  
  
“What do you think of my Spada?” Lee then asks, shoving the yipping ball of fur at Laurens so abruptly he nearly stumbles backwards.  
  
“Ah—She seems spirited, Sir.”  
  
“Indeed.” Lee smiles, seems pleased, is then moved onto meeting Fitzgerald, for him already having been acquainted with Meade.  
  
“Spirited, eh?” Hamilton snorts quietly.  
  
Laurens swats him lightly on the arm. “Oh, be quiet, Sir.”  
  
Hamilton blinks, narrows his eyes, leans in just a little. “Is that an order?” he breathes heavily against Laurens’ skin.  
  
Laurens fights to contain a blush. “Hamilton!” he hisses. “We…the General… _God_.”  
  
Hamilton moves back again, clearly fighting a laugh, but Laurens makes no response, for Lee has just crossed in front of him again, and he be suddenly assaulted by a God awful smell.  
  
It seems alike to dog, perhaps, mixed with the scent of a man who may be unwashed, though Lee's uniform appears incredibly new.  
  
Laurens ardently hopes this only from travel and captivity, else Potts’ House may require more windows opened with haste.

  
It seems, unfortunately, that Spada shall go wherever Lee may, making a nuisance of herself under foot all throughout headquarters, and forcing Meade into threatening to feed her to Lee in a pie several times over—not to Lee’s face, of course—though Laurens knows he jests.

Or ardently _hopes_ he only jests, anyhow.  
  
Hamilton grumbles about Lee having secured such high command through what he deems, at least, to be very little work.  
  
With Lee’s arrival in camp, the Baron’s plan for having the army reorganised into five divisions is finally carried out. The five fall under the command of Lafayette, de Kalb, Lord Stirling, and Wayne, as well as Lee, which Hamilton should grow even further incensed over.  
  
For once, the rest of the aides agree with his assessment, for Lee having managed to irritate most during his stay at headquarters.  
  
Receiving news he shall be given his own lodgings seems, to Laurens, akin to the excitement of Christmas morning as a child.  
  
As May slowly stumbles towards its end, in the same manner limbs might through humid air, whispers grow of movements increasing behind the British lines, and there seems some sort of agreement, confirmed through mysterious Tallmadge means, that perhaps the British shall move their camp, now that Clinton in charge, rather than Howe.  
  
Laurens feels that their time in winter quarters should be creeping towards an ending, and he says so to Hamilton, when he manages to catch him alone one eve, out amongst the privacy of the trees.  
  
“Aye,” says Hamilton in agreement, voice wary, his eyes reflecting both anticipation and caution. “I expect so. The campaign should resume with the finer weather, I should think.”  
  
“ _Oui_.” Laurens moves to lean up against the same tree as Hamilton, shoulders and sides pressed together. “I suppose that may bring battle, or perhaps separate tasks once more.”  
  
Hamilton sighs; Laurens feels his breath puff softly across his cheek, smelling of coffee, but also his own scent, that which Laurens knows well, should smell on his pillow each morn they share bed in the cabin.  
  
“I suppose so, my dear Laurens. I fear I have grown rather accustomed to having you by my side near every waking moment.”  
  
Laurens blinks, for this such a rare admittance of weakness from Hamilton. He slips down the tree a little, so that he may rest his head against Hamilton’s shoulder, nuzzle his face into his hair, nose into his neck, press soft, careful kisses to his skin.  
  
“I feel the same, my dear boy,” he whispers, feels as though his soul suddenly stretches taut, as though some strange sorrowful note snaps, reverberates away through the breeze. “And yet we both know that cannot always be.”  
  
Hamilton moves his neck out of kissing range; Laurens flicks gaze up to find Hamilton’s face set stubbornly. “And why not? Why should some be allowed their love, and others not?”  
  
“Others do not love a crime,” Laurens murmurs sadly. “They be not tainted by such sin.”  
  
“And who should decide so?” Hamilton exclaims.  
  
“The Lord,” Laurens reminds. “’Tis penned in scripture, as you recall.”  
  
“In a book men wrote.” Hamilton’s voice is tight, angered. “In a book men may have written wrong.”  
  
“Alexander…” Laurens begins; they have had this argument too many times for him to feel the need for such in this moment.  
  
Hamilton presses his lips together. “Aye. Well. You know my thoughts on this already.”  
  
Laurens nods, tentatively places his head back on Hamilton’s shoulder. He notices Hamilton sigh, the feel of it pressing through his cheek.  
  
“Alexander?”  
  
“Mmm?”  
  
“I love you.”  
  
Hamilton huffs a tiny laugh. “And I you. Why should that not be enough for this world?”  
  
Laurens lifts his head, stands straighter, places a gentle hand to Hamilton’s jaw, turns his face towards him.  
  
“That be something I have no answer for.” He kisses Hamilton very softly, feels Hamilton smile against his lips.  
  
“John, I—” Hamilton murmurs into their kiss. “I would wish to always have you. Please remember such if you may attempt any reckless thing on this campaign.”  
  
Laurens draws back a little, rolls his eyes. “I would say the same to you.”  
  
Hamilton frowns. “But I not the one determined sacrifice should bring remembrance of me.”  
  
Laurens glances away. “Perhaps not, but there still some part of you just as reckless as any of my temperament, else neither of us should have begun this at all.”  
  
Hamilton chuckles. “Aye, that true. I am glad then, for I should not like to have never known your taste.”  
  
Laurens splutters. “ _Hamilton_.”  
  
Hamilton is grinning widely, eyes fond and teasing. He reaches up to tug Laurens’ queue. “What, Sir? We are alone, and I have said many more crass things when we—”  
  
“Aye, I know, I know!” Laurens flushes. “But that be different.”  
  
“Ha.” Hamilton shakes his head. “God, but I love you, my dear Laurens.”  
  
Laurens smiles, cannot quite place why he near feels like weeping. He kisses Hamilton again, a little harder, summons a little more passion, until Hamilton begins to run a hand down Laurens’ front, teases at the ties of his breeches.  
  
Laurens suddenly pulls away, places both hands against Hamilton’s jaw, holds it tight. “I must assure you that I do not seek to be rid of you in any capacity, my dear boy. To lose you would break me, and that I fear most of all.”  
  
Hamilton blinks, nonplussed, clearly still caught in the desire of a moment before. “You—well—I—” He stops, pauses; Laurens feels a hand cradle gently round his neck. “Please take care to recall I should feel the same about losing you.”  
  
“Aye,” whispers Laurens. He bows his head so that their foreheads press together gently. “Aye.”  
  
And he shall recall it.  
  
But he cannot let such as that stop Hamilton from becoming the sort of man he should one day grow to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire chapter was mostly purely self-indulgent fun before the pace of the war picks up again, so I hope you enjoyed it ;)
> 
> I have to gift so much kudos and love to the fantastic peblezQ, fiaistired and Blue_Clover! They inspired an awful lot of that fencing scene, and I don’t know where my motivation would be without them <3 I also have to thank peblezQ and @queerrevolution1776 on tumblr, for all their help on the rules and mechanics of fencing, which I knew nothing about xD (any mistakes made are on me tho lol) 
> 
> And look, I honestly don’t know which of the aides could fence, and which couldn’t (and it wasn’t quick info to research) but I hazarded a guess according to where they were educated. I *do*, however, know Laurens could, as he mentions learning in a letter, and that Hamilton most probably could not. 
> 
> Also: Lee stunk, he was most definitely a stinky man! There are letters written about it and everything. More thanks go to @queerrevolution1776 for alerting me to this hilarious and magnificent fact xD (btw if queer amrev history and John Laurens is something you’re interested in, I’d recommend giving their blog a follow!) 
> 
> If any of you caught the random reference to Jane Austen’s ‘Emma’ in this chapter, you may have a prize <3 (tho idk what the prize might be yet!) I love that scene, and the dialogue just jumped in!
> 
> French translations:  
> -J'étais un mousquetaire noir: I were a Black Musketeer [a company of the King’s Musketeers]  
> -Treize ans: thirteen years  
> -Très facilement: very easily  
> -Mon cher imbécile: My dear fool


	19. The Campaign Recommences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooo :) I am *so sorry* this chapter took so long, oof. My personal life has been rather hectic these last few weeks, and apparently 2021 decided to enter with a bang on the global stage as well (I sincerely hope that you’re all doing okay, January has been a bit of a wild ride, hey?) 
> 
> I really hope to keep updates within a two week timeframe (unlike this one oops), but I won’t promise, just in case <3 
> 
> Though on the plus side, with maybe five to seven-ish chapters left after this one, at least this way I’m (accidentally) stretching out the ending? ;) 
> 
> (I edited and posted this half asleep, so hopefully there are no devastating typos xD)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_Winter Encampment  
Valley Forge  
June 1st – 18th 1778_

Laurens knows himself to be restless; strangely affected by inactivity and suspense where this has not bothered him since before Valley Forge. It that same sort of terrible restlessness that has so plagued him previously on the eve of battles; that odd combination of feeling both restrained too tightly to function, and yet also feeling besieged by a desperate need to move, to run, to stand alone amongst the trees and scream at the heavens.   
  
In those first two weeks of June, it becomes near impossible for his concentration to be summoned when at work in the office; he writes jittery letters, in bad hand, splattered so with ink that he must re-write many, much to the chagrin of Harrison.   
  
His father writes, his _wife’s_ father writes, and that no help either, for it forces his mind to wander down darker paths, an anxiety not borne well at the best of times, not least when his thoughts and body already work tirelessly against him.   
  
Laurens begins to take a walk each day, if only briefly, when the other aides begin their lunch, or perhaps break to shake cramped hands and down rapid coffee. It helps not at all with warding off the strange encroaching anticipatory clouds; nor does it inject feeling where numbness begins to seep through skin, as though threads of apathy begin to weave alongside veins.   
  
Walking does, however, allow Laurens some time away from the office, where Hamilton’s concerned gaze starts to feel cloying, and Meade’s sharp tongue inspires irrational irritancy instead of the usual embarrassed, but resigned, amusement.   
  
Laurens knows not why, exactly, this mood should come upon him now, of all the times, but it appears that whatever dark clouds should sometimes obscure his thoughts have no rhyme nor reason to them; perhaps they appear as he fears likely separation from Hamilton once the army marches again, perhaps because the entire army knows they should recommence campaign soon, and battles shall result; perhaps because the asking of his wife on the subject of journeying to American continues.   
  
Perhaps it stems from all of these things, or none of them, for Laurens begins to suspect these moods may not ever entirely leave him, so unrepentantly as they afflict him.   
  
He wonders on a life of these slowly darkening moods, and yet no Hamilton there beside him during such times.   
  
This seems not at all inviting, nor particularly enticing of a long life, and this only seems to tempt this mood to grasp an even tighter hold on his mind.   
  
  
One of these afternoons, he manages to escape out the office door whilst Harrison hands round coffee; he does not realise he has been followed until he out beyond the edge of camp, in the trees, staring wearily up at the sky, attempting to summon deep breaths, fists clenched, chest tight.   
  
He knows he should not feel this way, for it affects how well he may perform his duties as an aide-de-camp; that this state of affairs cannot continue, else the others grow cross, mayhap even question his sanity.   
  
Laurens feels perhaps he ought to question the state of his mind also, for this awful suspense and weighty numbness grows near unbearable; almost drowns out all else he must desperately turn his attention to.  
  
And so, he does not realise there another beside him, until this other taps him on the cheek lightly, questions—   
  
“Jack?”  
  
—and suddenly Laurens be summoned back to himself; realises his fingernails dig so tight into his palms they may bleed.   
  
He blinks.   
  
“Hamilton.”  
  
He feels near proud of how steady his voice may sound.   
  
Hamilton regards him with an uncharacteristically worried expression, eyes creased and tired. “What ails you so, my dear?”   
  
Laurens shrugs, gestures round him helplessly, in a manner that encompasses both everything and nothing.   
  
“I anticipate us breaking camp. That is all.”  
  
Hamilton hums, presses his lips together, says nothing for a short moment.   
  
“We all anticipate us breaking camp, yet none others seem so…unsettled.”  
  
Laurens frowns. “And I may not have my own reactions? I must match all others in this?”   
  
Hamilton suddenly reaches out, sharp, grasps a hold of Laurens’ hand, turns it palm up, traces a fingertip over the slight cuts left by desperate clenching.   
  
“I know what it is to feel so untethered; I recognise it. I remember.” Hamilton casts his eyes upward; Laurens meets them reluctantly, shivers, imagines an icy river, this same sort of concerned tone Hamilton now exhibits present in that memory also.   
  
He snatches his hand back, wipes it carefully against his coat. “It be not like that, Hamilton.”  
  
“No?” Hamilton crosses his arms stubbornly. “And would you tell me if it were?” He sounds sceptical, which, Laurens supposes, be not unfair, though it hurts somewhat.  
  
“No.”  
  
Hamilton sighs. His shoulders slump as he glances away. “And why not?”   
  
Laurens pauses a moment. Truly, _no_ were an instinctual answer, given before much thought. He would take it back, if he were able.   
  
“I—we…we must manage our own selves, must we not?”  
  
Hamilton steps a little closer, touches a hesitant hand to Laurens’ jaw. Laurens resists the urge to lean into it, for if he does, he may lose what self-restraint he still possesses.   
  
“But what should love be for, if not to assist with such burdens?”  
  
Laurens turns his head away from Hamilton’s hand. “Hamilton…”  
  
“What, Sir?” Hamilton’s tone tends towards irritation, now. “What have I so said to deserve such scorn in your voice?”  
  
Laurens rolls his eyes; ridiculous annoyance rises under his skin. “I do not… _scorn_ you. But be reasonable, Hamilton! We may soon be separated with this war, and what use should it be if we come to depend upon one another overly much in all things?”  
  
Hamilton’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “Forgive my apparent amusement, but is that not something we have already done? I think my happiness should already be dependent on yours; were that not established many months past, when I were terrified for your health post Brandywine? When you feared for my life when I were in Albany? What were that, a passing interest?” Hamilton shakes his head. “God preserve us, John. I think ’tis far too late for such reservations; far past the number of spoken ‘I love you’s’ to pretend non-dependence now.”  
  
Laurens feels heavy fear rush through him, near enough to somewhat pierce the numbness. “And that were fine, when we in camp, when I were able to sleep beside you each night! But what of us now? How should I again become accustomed to the changes of campaign, to the possibility of separation?”  
  
Hamilton’s eyes flash. “Oh, and what should you suggest? You would have us cease this? Have we really begun such an argument _again_? I feel this be well trod ground between us already.”  
  
Laurens stares. “No, I would not suggest that. I know we have reached a level of care that cannot be ceased in that manner.”  
  
Hamilton is frowning in puzzlement, in clear frustration. “I truly do not understand then. I have said I love you, you have said the same; we both of us know how involved we have become. What is it you worry at, here?”   
  
“I do not—” Laurens huffs. “I do not _know_. I do not _know_ what the matter should be, and I feel that it drives me near mad. I would not lose you, not for anything, and I fear I may not function without you, and yet I feel I must, but I cannot, and I—I _do not know_!”   
  
Hamilton stares a moment, before Laurens finds he be suddenly crushed by Hamilton’s arms engulfing his waist, his head buried under his chin.   
  
It be not that they have never embraced; how often they have slept limbs entwined should refute that entirely. But this, this casual touch, this casual embrace, when it day, and unhidden, and not a part of some amorous connection; such should feel most different.   
  
Laurens be swept up suddenly by a torrent of affection for Alexander Hamilton, such that he may almost weep.   
  
Slowly, he wraps his own arms around Hamilton, allows the scent of Hamilton’s hair to invade his nose, notices the rough feel of Hamilton’s coat under his fingertips.  
  
“As always, you think far too much, my dear,” Hamilton murmurs, words muffled by Laurens’ cravat.   
  
Laurens feels a tiny unintentional smile grow upon his face. “Oh? And you do not?”   
  
Hamilton presses his forehead harder against Laurens’ chest. “I did not say that; only that you ought quiet your mind, just this once.”  
  
Laurens sighs. “You think I have not tried?”  
  
Hamilton lifts his head, blows air teasingly at Laurens’ nose. Laurens resists the urge to sneeze, blinks rapidly.   
  
“I think,” says Hamilton quietly. “That you have often believed as I do; that we must learn to manage ourselves in this world, for no other shall do it; that we must care for ourselves, for no other will. But I have learnt, John, that you should love me, and that I might have you, when I have no other.”  
  
Laurens holds Hamilton tighter. “And you are telling me I ought feel the same, on sharing burdens?”  
  
Hamilton smiles sadly. “I would hope for it, but I cannot make it so.”  
  
Laurens leans down, kisses Hamilton gently. “And here we circle back again, for if I have you, and I should lose you—”   
  
“Were it not you,” Hamilton softly points out. “Who told me you should rather have loved and perished, than never have known such care? I think the principle the same, here. I should rather have loved and lost, now that I have felt its touch, than never have known such love at all.”  
  
“Aye,” Laurens agrees quietly, sadly, feels the strange anticipatory suspense rear its ugly head once more. “But whilst true, if I were to lose it, I know not how I might function in the aftermath.”  
  
“Hmm.” Hamilton steps back, removes his arms from Laurens’ waist; Laurens feels the cold space between them keenly. “We cannot live for eternal fear of tomorrow, surely? Else neither of us would find ourselves soldiers.”  
  
And here again, the core of Hamilton, the main difference in their recklessness. Fast paced, ideas flowing; no fear of tomorrow whilst today still remains, for he determined there nothing he might lose that should slow his pace.   
  
“Aye,” Laurens agrees, though he does not, truly. He has not the energy to continue this debate, particularly when he does not really understand what mood plagues him, nor what argument he even conducts.   
  
Hamilton nods. “Well, then.” He smirks slightly. “I think we had better return to the office, else Meade find himself inspired to impudent jests.”   
  
Laurens summons his best attempt at a smile. “Aye. If he should joke one more time on one’s inability to, ah, sit in chairs comfortably, I fear even McHenry may realise what should be insinuated.”  
  
“The horror!” Hamilton laughs softly. “If such an agreeable man should suspect us of this depravity.” He sounds almost sarcastic.   
  
“ _Alexander_ ,” warns Laurens, and though he tries his hardest, his voice still seems to feel so separate to his mind, his thoughts.   
  
Hamilton waves a hand. “Aye, I know, I apologise; I shall leave poor McHenry out of this.”  
  
Laurens turns back towards Potts’ House, eyes wandering over the rows of huts and trees that lie between there and here. “But we had best return, as you say.”  
  
Hamilton’s eyes flit to him rapidly, sparking warmly. He reaches a hand up, pulls Laurens down into a gentle kiss.   
  
“Come, my pretty fool.”  
  
Laurens huffs, feels his cheeks heat rapidly at the epithet. “Who should be more the fool of us truly, you or I?”   
  
“Both,” says Hamilton. “Neither.”  
  
They make their return to the office, only to be met by Meade’s sharply amused gaze, and though Laurens wishes to submit himself to Hamilton’s words of advice, this mood will not be banished, however hard he may try.

  
By the eighteenth of the month, what has long been suspected should be realised; the combined efforts of Tallmadge, and the scouting regiments, produces reports that the British likely begin a march New York bound, under General Clinton’s command, as their supply wagons already send supplies and men ahead of the main body of their army.   
  
And so it is that Valley Forge, their strange, cold lodgings, that which held so much hunger, and discomfort, and despair, and judgment, and yet also created such bonds of friendship, and understanding, and love, and mercy, be mostly dismantled, their winter quarters demolished.   
  
Their home for six months, a place where Laurens suspects may be the only where he and Hamilton should be given opportunity for such closeness as they have been so fortunate to share, should abruptly be no more.   
  
Laurens’ unsettled mood only grows stronger, as trunks are packed, as papers be collated and sorted for travel, as weapons, dormant in cabins for so long, are pulled apart, cleaned, reassembled; the reality once more setting in that this indeed be a war, and some men who currently draw breath shall not live to see its end.

***

_Jonathan Feel House  
Doyletown   
June 20th 1778_

It should now be near impossible to imagine the piercing cold that caused such misery when the Continental Army last marched, headed for winter quarters. With this new march, it seems as though each step brings further heat, further humidity, heavy, languid air slicking and stifling limbs in a near physical embodiment of the anticipation felt by all.   
  
Where Valley Forge brought frostbite and starvation, the march in pursuit of the British creates only heatstroke and dehydration; coats are ruined not with threadbare holes, but with sweat, and dirt, and heavy, heated rain.  
  
Roads grow muddied, churned up by hoofs and wagons; splattered grime seems to paint all things, makes its way even under blankets and tents when camp be set up where the army makes to halt.   
  
Intelligence—and also common sense—indicates that the British Army be headed for Sandy Hook, likely to reconvene with their naval fleet, and set sail for New York. With fifteen hundred wagons, stretching across the landscape for twelve long miles, they move not particularly quickly, and are not difficult to follow.   
  
Suggestions of raiding parties be tossed about; several Generals very much for the idea, others very much against, as it seems not a… _dignified_ way to conduct a battle, a war.   
  
Laurens be in two minds on this, for he should appreciate the strange honour written between the lines and pages of battle conduct, but should also like to strike the British whilst they appear most vulnerable. Their Continental Army may now have the support of the French, but the French have not yet joined them here in this endeavour.   
  
Lafayette and Greene appear keen to join battle in this quick, sharp manner; Lee less so. Laurens wonders which of these opinions should eventually weigh out, for Washington clearly favours Greene and Lafayette, and yet must also consider Lee, for his seniority.

  
On the morning of the 20th, two days post Generals Lee and Wayne’s departure with an advance division, and a day following the rest of the army’s leaving, camp breaks at four in the morning.   
  
Laurens fears he may sleep in the saddle; despite his experience with restless sleep and late nights kept up working, six months spent in one place prepares them all poorly for the rigours of endless marching.   
  
All of them, that is, bar Hamilton. Hamilton scribbles furiously _as_ he rides, his horse being redirected by a snorting Meade several times, and even once by McHenry, who regards the strange sight with eyebrows raised, and a threat to mention Hamilton’s bizarre behaviour in the journal he keeps.   
  
This starts a lengthy tease, whereby any time an aide does or says some odd thing, others will threaten them with eternal remembrance between the pages of McHenry’s record.   
  
Laurens wonders whether he too ought to have set more ink to paper in this personal manner, but thinks as he should find writing even impersonal letters difficult enough, the pages of any journal he may keep would only end up blank.   
  
He wishes, though—however strangely—for time to sketch these new images he witnesses: Hamilton slouched over a travel desk in the saddle; Meade unimpressed when he dismounts covered in mud and sweat after delivering missives up and down the column; Tilghman making secretive faces whenever they may have the misfortune to hear Lee speak; the desperately contained laughs of the other aides when this should occur—even on the part of Harrison.   
  
Laurens does not, however, sketch these images. Both for he too busied by missive copying and intelligence correspondence (on the wider manoeuvres of the British Army, that is, not the secret Tallmadge sort) and also because he fears the odd emotion that may accompany regarding such images immortalised upon the page.

  
That evening, as rain begins to beat their faces with spiking insistence, they halt at Doyletown, with headquarters temporarily in the house of one Jonathan Feels, twenty-two miles from Philadelphia; the bulk of the army encamps eight miles further back.   
  
If it were not impolite to the family that graciously hosts them, Laurens should have retired when first they stepped foot inside; instead, he be forced to attempt wakefulness, as further correspondence flows in, and the maid of the family makes conversation with some of the other aides.   
  
He pays very little attention to this, until Tilghman—who sits beside him, both of them scribbling furiously upon travel desks, for the lack of true desks available—makes some remark about McHenry and Hamilton under his breath.   
  
“Pardon?” mutters Laurens, still half-contemplating the best response for some missive meant for General de Kalb.   
  
Tilghman tilts his head subtly. “I think Hamilton most ridiculous.”  
  
“Oh?” Laurens frowns, places his quill down; it seems he must participate in this conversation properly after all. It be not just some passing remark on the part of Tilghman.   
  
Tilghman flicks eyes to the other side of the room, where, Laurens realises, McHenry and Hamilton both converse with the Feels’ maid. “It clear McHenry quite eager for conversation with her.”  
  
“Aye?” Laurens glances up proper, not entirely sure where this subject should be headed. “And that should be fine, I imagine, so long as all parties behave respectably.”  
  
Tilghman nods, taps a finger on his travel desk. “Oh, aye; that not the issue.”  
  
“Then what?” Laurens watches the three slightly; feels prickles of jealousy make their way across his chest, creep their cold fingers down his spine. It clear Hamilton engages that same charm that seems to mean all in a room may fall under his sway; it reminds Laurens unpleasantly of that party at von Steuben’s, and Hamilton’s pointed flirting.   
  
Laurens thinks he must make some unintentional face at this memory, for Tilghman tuts, sighs.  
  
“Hamilton were not at all interested when she attempted to speak with him afore now; he only does so at this junction to annoy McHenry, I think.”  
  
Laurens frowns. “I had thought that issue done with.”  
  
Tilghman smirks a little. “Aye, well. Hamilton be not one to let things lie quietly, as we all know. I think perhaps he finds some amusement in this.” Tilghman seems to watch McHenry carefully. “And I think McHenry does not mind the competition, for it appears that this time he may have won, anyhow.”  
  
And indeed, the girl be facing further towards McHenry now, has shifted slightly from where she were facing Hamilton.   
  
Laurens presses his lips together, forces himself back to his work.   
  
When he glances up again, meaning to only see whether Hamilton still shamelessly flirts, he realises Meade be watching him, eyes gentle.   
  
Laurens shakes his head sternly, looks away; he has no wish to engage Meade on such a topic as this, and even less so now Meade should know why Hamilton’s behaviour should bother Laurens so.

  
Unfortunately, as with most things relating to Meade and his accidental knowledge, he shall not drop a subject without first attempting some discussion. Usually, of course, this should involve pointed jests.   
  
This time, however, he seems intent on engaging in some serious talk, which Laurens knows himself poorly equipped to handle, due both to his lingering dark mood, and his lack of sleep. He would avoid any and all such conversations as Meade may wish to instigate with fervour, but that the other aides-de-camp seem to thwart him in this wish; so thoroughly, in fact, that Laurens near suspects Meade of some conspiracy—though of course this untrue; Meade should just be apparently particularly ardent in his friendly torture of Laurens.   
  
As such, Harrison and Fitzgerald have since stepped out of the aides’ room, perhaps to locate the General; Tilghman and McHenry both having recently retired to bed, as well as the Feels’ maid to her quarters, and Hamilton whisked away for some quick word with Tallmadge.  
  
Thus, Laurens left alone, at Meade’s mercy. He thinks to perhaps gather his things, attempt a little rest before an inevitable early rising once more, makes to stand—  
  
Meade clears his throat, and Laurens pauses, defeated before the dance should even begin; he far too tired and numb to resist.   
  
“Meade?” Laurens does little to hide his exasperation. “You have something you wish to say?  
  
Meade, however, does not reach for a jest, as should be his usual manner of dealing with any subject involving Laurens and Hamilton. Instead, he only regards Laurens carefully in the candlelight; small flickers of fire highlighting the exhaustion of his eyes, the strain pulling at the corners of his mouth.   
  
War seems to make smiling ghouls of them all.   
  
“Are you…well?” Meade begins, near uncharacteristically hesitant.   
  
Laurens blinks a moment, utterly nonplussed. “Aye—I am, yes, Sir.”  
  
Meade hums, runs a hand tiredly over his hair, loosening his queue a little. “I only…ah. I do not…mean to pry, Laurens. You have seemed—subdued, that be all.” His eyes flick to the door, through which Hamilton were the last to exit.   
  
Laurens feels his eyes widen, wonders…“If you make reference to Hamilton—”   
  
Meade frowns slightly. “I only feel that you—that he—well, you have seemed rather out of sorts, and then this evening—?”  
  
Laurens flushes bright red. It be one type of awkwardness to have Meade jest at their expense, and yet quite another to have him attempt serious discussion as this. It reminds Laurens of just afore Hamilton’s last departure, when Meade tried to comfort him somewhat clumsily, and left with openings into a strange new world of forbidden inclinations.  
  
Laurens clears his throat. “Ah, I—I thank you for your concern, but there be no…reason for it.”  
  
Meade also seems to have gone a little red in the face; a unique image, to be sure. “So…Hamilton should not be the reason?”  
  
Laurens shakes his head. “No, and there be nothing the matter anyhow.”  
  
Meade makes a noise of scepticism; it seems he has noticed Laurens’ flat mood over the past few weeks after all. However, he seems like not to push it at this moment; perhaps respects that such denial on Laurens’ part must indicate a reluctance to speak on the subject. Rather, he only ploughs onwards, face flushing further.   
  
“But Hamilton…when he and McHenry—when they—the girl?”   
  
Laurens must try desperately to restrain hysterical laughter. “That were nearly almost an entire sentence, Meade.”  
  
Meade glares, rolls his eyes. “I only attempt some subtlety on the matter.”  
  
“So subtle it be that I know not what you speak of,” Laurens points out dryly. He feels the flush in his cheeks fade. “There be not much merit in dancing round what you wish to ask, when we both know damn well what you speak of.”  
  
Meade crosses his arms, glances carefully at the closed door, speaks bluntly. “When Hamilton were flirting with that girl, you were in clear discomfit.”  
 _  
Oh_. Laurens glances down at his travel desk, finds that his fingers begin to dig into paper. He forces himself to relax ever so slightly.   
  
He sighs, says nothing for a moment.   
  
Then:  
  
“Aye, but I am uncomfortable with most flirting, being not much proficient at it myself.”  
  
Meade raises his eyebrows. “That may be true, but…when it concerns Hammie should feel different, I presume.”  
  
Laurens gazes downwards once more, squeezes his eyes shut momentarily. “I would not stop him having his fun.”  
  
He risks a flick of the eyes towards Meade, regrets it at the clear sympathy present on Meade’s face. Such a change, where three months ago the man were not sure whether they deserved clemency, and now he here offering obvious sympathy.   
  
Laurens feels he may not deserve it.   
  
“Laurens…” Meade trails away. “You know Ham enjoys a flirt, for he knows himself good at it; it truly should be his fun, as you say. But not once have I ever seen him look at one he flirts with in the manner I have so witnessed him look at you.” He smiles softly. “I would call the others obtuse for their ignorance, but that I also were so determinedly ignorant, ’til I had no other choice.”  
  
Laurens stares a moment; it must be the exhaustion, for he feels he may weep.   
  
“Meade, I—”   
  
Meade holds up a hand. “Please, do not thank me. I truly do not know whether my aid in comfiting you should be a good thing, or whether I only encourage something that may end in ruins.”  
  
Laurens feels his face drain of colour. “I only—”   
  
“Aye.” Meade’s expression is sad, gentle. “I know. But Laurens, I must ask…” He trails away. “I have asked before if Ham might yet marry, and you answered that aye, he may. Yet I did not ask…”  
  
“Aye?” Laurens prompts, finds his voice loses volume, shakes a little.   
  
“What should you do if he does?”   
  
The words drop into the room, sharp and hard and heavy, in the manner of pebbles being thrown into a still pond, the ripples travelling destructively outwards as the calmness ceases existence.   
  
Laurens finds himself tense all over, swallows once, twice, casts gaze to the floor, for he cannot meet Meade’s eye.   
  
“I do not know,” he whispers, and that a lie, of course, as he truly knows, somewhere deep down, that he does not know how he might even continue breathing, knowing Hamilton loves another.   
  
“Ah.” Meade’s tone seems to approach that same one he uses oft on skittish horses. “I see.”   
  
Laurens doubts he should.   
  
He may try, but he should not know, nor understand, this anguish, should likely understand it even less if he were to learn Laurens already married himself.   
  
Abruptly, Meade sets his papers aside, stands up, crosses the room to stand before Laurens.   
  
He offers Laurens a tentative hand. “I think we both ought turn in, for I suspect an early march, and I have little wish for Tilghman to make use of his usual wake up call.”  
  
Laurens chuckles weakly at this; sees it as a clumsy attempt to change the subject, but appreciates it nonetheless.   
  
“Aye, I think you to be right.” He stands, grasping Meade’s hand lightly for a second as his legs buckle from prolonged inactivity, before withdrawing his hand, gathering his things.   
  
Meade opens the door for them both, almost walking straight into a harried looking Hamilton.   
  
Meade huffs with amusement. “And here the man we speak of himself.”  
  
“Pardon?” Hamilton’s eyes flit between the two of them, creased with confusion. “You speak of me?”  
  
“Aye,” Meade agrees carelessly. “You and your incessant flirting.” He moves off and out of the room, likely headed to where the aides’ tents are pitched.   
  
Hamilton stares, mouth opening and closing, seeming rather foolish in his surprise.   
  
“Jack?” he demands. “Were you really?”  
  
Laurens only smiles, checks for unwanted eyes, quickly presses a light kiss to Hamilton’s forehead.   
  
“Of course not, my dear boy,” he says. “Only of your writing talents.”  
  
A lie, but a harmless one, and far less than many of the other lies he has told his love.

***

_John Hunt House  
Hopewell Township  
June 23rd – 25th 1778_

Laurens listens to debate wearily, desperately attempting to ensure his eyes remain open, that he projects some semblance of awareness in his duties. Washington, and Generals Arnold, Cadwallader, Scott and Lee, debate what moves the British Army might make, pouring over intelligence that has just arrived from General Dickinson, who scouts further ahead of the main body, in order to supply information that be as accurate as possible on the enemy’s movements.   
  
Hamilton, though mostly relegated to taking notes on the debate, also should inject his opinion into proceedings somewhat, though he does, at least, mostly wait for when Washington may ask for his views.   
  
The rest of the aides either take notes silently, or work on various pieces of correspondence. Laurens finds himself assigned once more to French translation and correspondence; their new allies constantly in communication with Washington on how their joining might produce the best outcome for the American side.   
  
Unfortunately, it be exceedingly difficult to focus on translation, when the voices of the Generals should grow louder at the reading of each report, and he still exhausted from a couple days’ rapid riding to reconnoitre the very spot the army now encamps at.  
  
Since their departure from Doyletown, and the Feels’ house, the last few days seem to blend in some strange melding of memories and arguments.   
  
On the morning of the twenty-first, as Meade had so predicted, they awoke in the early hours of the morn; Washington, and a portion of the army encompassing the spare baggage and artillery, crossed the Delaware, but most of their number remained camped on the western bank for the day, with poor Meade dispatched back and forth several times, assisted once or twice by Fitzgerald when his mount required rest.   
  
The heat were so oppressive, so awful, so heavy, that it near felt impossible to move, to speak, to think, to breathe, and indeed, many of the men fell dead in the swelter, new bodies requiring burial before battle has yet to even commence.   
  
It seems the lot of their army, whether they march in snow or heat, that the weather may itself sometimes seem set against their venture.   
  
The day post that disastrous one brought more news from Dickinson, of the enemy camped four miles below Trenton.  
  
That were the day Washington decided on sending the French engineer, General Louis DuPortail, ahead to reconnoitre closer to Prince Town, as Dickinson’s intelligence suggested the British were moving more rapidly, and the General in a hurry to find the most advantageous place to encamp.   
  
Laurens were then asked to accompany DuPortail, on account of his skill in drawing. He remains unsure as to who informed His Excellency of his skill in this manner, but suspects perhaps Hamilton, or even Meade.   
  
Before Laurens leaves with DuPortail, he and Hamilton argue, though he still, several days later, finds himself confused as to what, exactly, were the point of conflict; except, perhaps, that Hamilton not chosen for such a duty that may send him so close to the enemy, and he slightly resentful Laurens should have been.   
  
By the twenty-third, Laurens and DuPortail find themselves investigating the landscape five miles from Prince Town; Laurens sketches as best he can of the roads and principal points of the area, explaining to the General in quickly dashed correspondence that DuPortail finds the front of the area suggested for encampment good for defence, the flank less so, and that they have not the time to examine methods of retreat. Water be not particularly abundant, but an area called Rocky Point provides some advantageous position.   
  
Though this scouting trip does not require fighting, nor do they come upon any unintended British, Laurens still finds it somewhat useful to his current state of his mind, for physical, necessary work distracts a little from what odd darkness should otherwise take over, and he finds it strangely peaceful to work alongside DuPortail, a man he knows little of, conversing only in French, and only where strictly necessary.   
  
Though they must, of course, be remarkably cautious of their surroundings when they without the bulk of the Continental Army for assistance should they meet trouble, Laurens finds himself a small part disappointed once the rest of the aides and the army moves to the position they scout, and he once again subsumed back into office duties.   
  
  
And now, this current discussion taking place in another new temporary headquarters; Arnold insistent that they dispatch a detachment back across the Delaware; Scott ardently pressing for a division to be directed in advance of the main body, in case they should meet the British rear; Cadwallader passionate that he be allowed to recruit further soldiers from the Philadelphia volunteers to join his march on the enemy’s rear.  
  
Washington gives his consent to these requests, and Hamilton sets quickly to recording these decisions for the other Generals, the other commands, the enlisted men.   
  
Laurens turns his eyes back to the French correspondence, avoiding Hamilton’s gaze, for them not having spoken since the others arrived where Laurens and DuPortail awaited them, after the bizarre argument that marred Laurens’ departure.   
  
Lee lingers in headquarters like the bad smell he so often projects, for he and Washington awaiting other Generals on a hastily called Council of War, post this first meeting of the morning. He speaks to Harrison on some subject; Laurens finds himself grateful Harrison should engage with such a dislikeable gentlemen and so save the rest of them from such association.   
  
Laurens himself has no wish to be drawn into some conversation on his father, Congress, and their supposed favouring of Lee over many of the other Generals—in Lee’s opinion, anyhow.   
  
After ducking out of Headquarters briefly to hand over the various dispatches, Hamilton seats himself squashed right up against Laurens, for the desks they given leave to use here be quite small, and as it clearly a choice between Fitzgerald’s desk and Laurens’ own, Hamilton should certainly choose Laurens, regardless of if they quarrel, or so it seems.   
  
“If we could both join battle and also see Lee perhaps somewhat incapacitated in said battle, that would seem an act of a most merciful God.”  
  
Laurens resists the urge to startle, for truly, _this_ should be what Hamilton so says, when they have spoken not for days, due both to distance and disagreement?   
  
“Hmm,” he agrees softly, casts careful glance across the room at Lee. “Whilst true, perhaps a not particularly prudent remark for this moment, Hamilton.”  
 _  
Hamilton_ leaves his mouth with an odd hardness to it, an unintended bitterness, and Hamilton sidles closer.   
  
“You are…angered, Sir?”  
  
“No,” says Laurens shortly, determinedly dips quill into inkpot, in an attempt to indicate he still works, and wishes for no distraction.  
  
Hamilton raises an eyebrow, leans in so that his breath brushes Laurens’ jaw.   
  
“You lie.”  
  
Laurens sighs. “I am tired, that is all. I were riding hard and fast, and then rapidly scouting, if you recall.”  
  
Hamilton’s mouth sets oddly. “Oh, aye, as if I could forget.”  
  
Laurens rolls his eyes. “And here it be again; it seems I am to be pleased when you given unique assignment, but you must begrudge me mine?”   
  
“I do not—” A swift kick from Laurens to Hamilton’s shin ensures Hamilton should realise he begins to speak at too loud a volume.   
  
He glares at Laurens, who only raises his eyebrows, as what else should he do? It would not do well to have _Lee_ , of all men, eavesdrop on Washington’s aides’ arguing with one another.   
  
“I do not,” Hamilton restarts in an agitated whisper. “Begrudge you that. I only—”  
  
Laurens shakes his head, briefly taps the back of Hamilton’s hand. He is, rather suddenly, far too tired, and honestly uncaring, to continue with this.   
  
“It matters not,” he mutters. “Truly. It done with now, anyhow.”  
  
Hamilton gapes a moment, leans into Laurens slightly, so that their shoulders touch, sides meeting flush; Laurens all too aware of such even through his coat, the sweltering air.  
  
“If you are entirely sure—” Hamilton starts, before they both startled away from one another, as far apart as the tiny desk allows, for Lee interrupts with:   
  
“Be you quite alright, gentlemen?”   
  
Laurens must try desperately to calm his rapid heartbeat; Hamilton’s cheeks creep close to the colour of his hair.   
  
Meade watches them also, face sharp, eyes carefully blank.   
  
Laurens clears his throat. “Aye, Sir. We were only discussing the manoeuvres of this army.”  
  
Lee nods. “Indeed. I thought perhaps you were conducting some disagreement.”  
  
Laurens feels his eyes widen slightly. “Not at all, Sir.”  
  
Lee smiles; Laurens wishes he would not, for it improves his visage not at all.   
  
“Such passionate discussion within General Washington’s office; it no wonder he says he cannot do without the candour of his aides.”  
  
This _sounds_ a compliment, but Laurens feels it should be anything but.   
  
Fortunately for all—or more likely Lee, for Hamilton begins to seem as though he may rapidly arise and challenge Lee to a duel at any moment—Washington re-enters the office then, begins instructing furniture be pushed here and there, maps be laid out just so, ink pots refilled, aides assigned to minute keeping, as Wayne, Knox, Greene, von Steuben, Lafayette, and several other Generals Laurens cannot quite remember the names of, all traipse in behind His Excellency, seeming all much affected by the ridiculous heat; Tilghman is sent for what beverages he may find.   
  
  
The Council of War proves rather longer in duration than Laurens had hoped, as it soon should become clear that there be much dissent between the opinions of the various Generals.   
  
Greene and Wayne advocate fervently for direct engagement, but a majority of the other Generals be against putting the enemy in a situation which might provoke direct attack, reasoning that the British should still be the stronger force in the field; though von Steuben loudly, and with several _goddamn_ ’s, argues that he has much better prepared the men for any sort of general engagement.   
  
Laurens agrees this true, though it remains to be seen how well the men keep to their formations when faced by actual British men, and the threat of real musket fire.   
  
“What if we were to, ah, strike at the supplies, as has been raised before, _oui_?” Lafayette interjects during a heated dispute between Lee and Greene on the merits of direct action.   
  
Washington nods at Lafayette; likely he just as pleased by the breaking of the current argument as he should be by the Marquis’ suggestion.   
  
“A worthy plan, although I do think we ought to consider that even such small action as that may, indeed, provoke immediate engagement, and so I believe we must be prepared for such an end—”   
  
And Lee again, actually interrupting Washington, as if he seems to sometimes believe Second-in-Command to be on equal forting with Commander in Chief.  
  
“I do not believe it wise to create such a situation, the British being so much greater in number—”  
  
“And what?” That Wayne, tone growing so irate as to perhaps match the blistering temperature outside headquarters. “I would think, by how you speak, that you suppose this war might be conducted only by avoiding all battles as should arise!”   
  
Lee cheeks darken with what seems rage; his dog, Spada, which he had his aide retrieve between this meeting and the last, yaps, as he appears to squeeze her rather tightly in his agitation.   
  
Thus ensues somewhat of an amusing scene, as Wayne leaps away from Spada’s yipping jaws, and Lee attempts to regain some dignity—dignity that does not exist, Laurens thinks, perhaps uncharitably—with a squirming dog in his arms.   
  
Wayne shakes his head with some recovered mirth. “I think your dog might be more partial to war than you, Sir.”  
  
Greene chuckles at this, which only serves to reignite the argument of before, between he and Lee.   
  
Knox, though he were watching such proceedings before with a spark of amusement, now holds up a hand; whilst he only senior to Laurens by four years, he commands with an astounding presence.   
  
“I think, gentlemen, that we debate on issues where one is unlikely to change the mind of the other. Perhaps it would be best that we make some decision now, instead of wasting words and time.” He glances at Washington as he says this, as though to ensure he speaks at his pleasure.  
  
Washington nods in return. “I should agree. We waste our precious time, as you say, and I am already determined that we will make ready to attack.”  
  
There be a small silence, as all in the room truly realise just how close they be to their first battle since December last year.   
  
Lee appears readying to make further disagreement, but wisely, or perhaps cowardly, decides to say nothing further on the subject.   
  
Talk turns then to who might command what division, and where, at what places the army ought encamp, what the plan should be; eyes turn to maps, and hastily scribbled orders, and Laurens finds his mind racing faster and faster, as though to keep pace with the rapid increase in his pulse. He has feared, with the alliance of the French, that opportunity for honour in the field may decrease; perhaps this might be his last chance for such in quite some time.

  
In the early hours of the twenty-fifth, the army moves to occupy Rocky Hill; tents be pitched once more, little respite from the heat to be found between the stifling walls of canvas.   
  
They receive intelligence that the British army’s route be drawing them past Emely’s Town and near to Monmouth Courthouse; speculation abounds that this be where they may make eventual camp, where mayhap the two armies might come within striking distance of one another.   
  
Washington orders that they move once more, but it seems likely that the bulk of the army shall not be ready to march until nightfall, and even then it seems doubtful they should even quite reach Kingston, which should still be around twenty miles from where the British may halt.   
  
The aides-de-camp work between the suffocating walls of Washington’s tent, perched on all manner of items as seats, whilst men dismantle camp with haste around them, sweating and groaning under the summer sun.   
  
Even Harrison resorts to loosening his cravat somewhat; once he has done so, all others feel they, too, may be justified in a slightly lesser level of decorum.   
  
Desperate heat calls for some altered circumstances after all, Laurens decides.   
  
The anticipation of battle galloping ever closer continues to take a hold of those in the office; every now and then a man might read some battle command in orders he copies, and glance up, suddenly thrust away from ink and paper, abruptly back amongst the screams of dying horses, the metallic powder smells of blood and muskets.   
  
Laurens both loathes this anticipation, and loathes that he should long for battle so, when it not an experience he feels sane men ought to crave.   
  
And yet he does.   
  
  
Lafayette be summoned sometime round noon, when the aides find themselves outside, working under the scorching sun, hats avidly scrambled for, as even Washington’s tent be dismantled.   
  
The General speaks quietly with the Marquis; all the aides quite clearly attempt to overhear what may be being said—some (as Hamilton and Tilghman) doing such with rather less tact than others.  
  
It an unneeded sneaking in the end, for Lafayette soon erupts into loud jubilation and delight; it seems Washington has assigned him his own command for whatever battle now approaches.  
  
“ _Votre Excellence_ , I shall endeavour to serve this command with all distinction as I should muster; I am honoured you think I should have ability to serve in this way! I am thrilled to be able to serve your cause, this army, _mes chers continentaux_ , and I am—”   
  
His excited stream of words melds into French in his elation; a faintly bemused, but seemingly pleased Washington watches on, with eyebrows slightly raised, and a questioning gaze cast over his aides, that seems to plead _I am not sure how I ought respond_.   
  
Rarely has Laurens witnessed Washington so utterly baffled, at least in his presence; it serves to somewhat humanise the General, if only a little.  
  
This scene should only be improved by a joyful Lafayette then grasping the General’s shoulders, leaning forward, kissing him enthusiastically on both cheeks, in the manner of the French Laurens has so witnessed time and time again, both in Geneva, and amongst the Frenchmen of this army.  
  
Washington, it be clear to see—though he has some experience with this, and it doubtful this be the first time such has happened to him—appears increasingly bewildered, and also startled, springing back from Lafayette’s hands with faint embarrassment, and a muffled:  
  
“My dear Marquis, there be really no need for such thanks, as there should be none other than you who should receive such a post as this—”  
  
But his protestations go unheeded, as Lafayette continues assuring his happiness at this position.  
  
Hamilton, it be fair to say, seems near to bursting with contained amusement, and from what Laurens may notice, casting a glance at the other aides, none of them should feel much less full of mirth.   
  
Finally, Lafayette ceases his voluminous thanks, and asks: “Hamilton! Laurens! If I may to speak with you somewhat hastily, before I make my departure?”  
  
Washington waves them away quickly, with hastened consent, and a slight glare Hamilton’s way that should seem to promise grave repercussions should his most unpredictable aide mention this to any that did not witness it so.  
  
Once they out of the hearing of the other aides, Hamilton stops, wipes a hand across his brow.   
  
“This awful heat should remind me of childhood,” he mutters under his breath.   
  
Laurens would ask more on this, but that Lafayette also ceases walking, and suddenly he finds himself enveloped in the Frenchman’s arms.   
  
“Ah… _mon cher_ Lafayette?” Laurens manages to gasp.  
  
“ _Oui_?” chuckles Lafayette; Laurens feels this chuckle reverberate through his own body.  
  
He hears Hamilton snort.  
  
“It seems rather too warm for such an embrace?”  
  
“Ha!” Lafayette obliging moves backwards, face split in a wide smile. “I am in too good a mood to not inflict my cheer upon _mes amis_ , as you.”  
  
Hamilton snorts again, and apparently this unwise, for Lafayette now turns his attention to him.   
  
“ _Mon cher_ Hamilton, you think I shall neglect you?”  
  
Hamilton’s eyes widen in alarm; he takes a step back, but his continued retreat be arrested by the vastly taller Marquis engulfing him in his arms.   
  
Laurens cannot stop a grin at this picture; Lafayette’s not insignificant height making the image all the more comical.   
  
Eventually, Hamilton squirms free, red in the face, with sweat flecked hair rather askew, but grinning fiercely.   
  
“Why the sudden fervent affection, Gilbert?”  
  
Lafayette shrugs. “I have been given the command I so ardently desire, and in doing so, must have met what high standards _le général_ holds his men to; I have this chance to earn the highest respect of my dear Americans, _oui_? How could I not share such joy?”  
  
Hamilton huffs. “Perhaps you might suggest a command for your friends?”  
  
Lafayette chuckles, but not unkindly. “Hmm _, mon cher_ , _peut être_ once I earn respect in my new command, _non_?”   
  
Hamilton shrugs, pretends uncaring, but Laurens may read the small discomfort upon his face.   
  
Lafayette then appears to grow a little more sombre. “I also must impart my affections, for it seems we move closer to battle, and I would not have either of you forget how dearly I should care for you, and thus do some reckless thing.”  
  
Laurens blinks, feels his smile slide away. “Why would you—”  
  
Lafayette shakes his head. “Do not try and refute such, dear Laurens; both Hamilton and I know recklessness, and you no less than either of us.”   
  
Laurens feels Hamilton’s hand grasp his, sweaty and warm, and although the heat makes contact as this near unbearable, he suddenly cannot stand to let the touch cease, despite being unsure of exactly how far they may be from the sight of the others.   
  
Lafayette’s glance flicks downwards, seems to pause at their joined hands; his eyes sadden. “ _Oui_. And I would not have you both forget what you may mean to the other, for I would very much hate if I should have to comfit one who has lost the other, as I think I would certainly fail. _Comprenez-moi_?”  
  
Laurens gazes into Lafayette’s youthful face, swiftly appearing older than its true years, an astonishing depth of the solemnity contained within his eyes.   
  
“ _Oui_ ,” Laurens murmurs. “ _Je comprends_.”  
  
There be a pause, wherein the bustling sounds of camp preparations unexpectedly breaks through their conversation, intruding with all the subtlety of Lee and his opinions.   
  
Hamilton squeezes Laurens’ hand once, then releases it.   
  
“ _Oui_ ,” he echoes. “ _Moi aussi_.”  
  
Lafayette hums, then reaches out to them both, grasps a hand of theirs each, laces his fingers between them.   
  
“Then may God watch over us all, and bring me safely back to _mes amis les plus chers_.”

***

_Continental Army Encampment  
Penelopen Township  
June 27th 1778_

Laurens stares up into the dark corners of a hastily erected tent that appears to be rather haphazardly sloping to one side.   
  
The General ordered all his aides attempt some rest, though it likely most lie utterly restless, as Laurens, for General Lee only some hours ago received orders to commence attack should the British appear to be resuming their march from Monmouth Courthouse, and the order to rise and join his division could conceivably occur at any moment.   
  
As such, Laurens lies fully dressed, but for his coat; offering some small relief from the unrelenting summer temperatures.   
  
The past two days have involved much marching, first to Kingston, and then onwards to Cranbury, six miles closer to English Town, and now here, at Penelopen Township, where they camp a mere five miles from where the British still remain at Monmouth.   
  
Thus, the battle appears imminent.   
  
Just this day, Laurens and the other aides witnessed General Lee with Washington, in a temper due to his being overlooked for the command Lafayette now holds.  
  
Though Laurens understands why the General should not wish to sow disunion at such a crucial moment, he does not agree with how Washington should appease Lee, instead of thoroughly berating him.   
  
And so, Lee were dispatched with two brigades, and sent to join the Marquis, as Senior Officer to the Command.   
  
Laurens doubts Lee should do what Lafayette may say, regardless of him holding the lesser of the two commands, for he a man incredibly assured that his seniority should breed the best battle tactics, rather than the intelligence, tenacity and merit Lafayette has so often previously demonstrated.   
  
It seems that no matter how much Laurens may have resolved to dislike Lee, Lee should produce some behaviour that should only incentivise Laurens to despise him further; a sentiment he knows to be shared by Hamilton.   
  
  
As soon as they should have reached Penelopen Township, the Marquis’ division were positioned at the advance of the army, held in readiness to attack should Washington give the order.  
  
General Morgan commands a division ready on the enemy’s right flank, and the militia under General Dickinson hover on their left.   
  
The British have seemingly chosen their position well, with their right flank skirted by a small wood, and their left by a thick forest and morass, meaning battle may be joined and fought across boggy marsh, and between bloodied trees.   
  
It fitting, Laurens thinks, that Washington ordered them only to rest, and not sleep, as though he knows none may find dreams when battle may be met and lives lost on the morrow.   
  
Laurens sighs, rolls over on his bedroll—they having not the time to assemble cots—the fabric of it near sticking to his face with sweat.   
  
He glances sideways, and meets Hamilton’s gaze, sparking in the quiet dark, for they managed to wrangle a shared tent—or rather, Meade graciously swapped, on some flimsy excuse, which Laurens should be incredibly grateful for.  
  
“You cannot sleep?” Hamilton whispers.  
  
Laurens huffs a tired laugh. “I imagine none do.”  
  
“No,” Hamilton agrees. “I suppose not.” He shuffles closer, so that he half on his own bedroll, half on Laurens’.   
  
“This weather shall make for poor conditions.”  
  
“Aye,” concurs Laurens, as there be nothing else to say, really; it sadly true.  
  
Hamilton reaches a hand out, lays it over Laurens’ stomach. Even in this oppressive heat, the places where his and Hamilton’s bodies touch seem to burn hotter still.   
  
“You will not forsake me in some quest for battlefield honour?” Hamilton’s voice barely shakes, but it enough that Laurens may notice.  
  
“No,” he murmurs, shuffles closer also, for it so hot, what should it matter if their close presence produces further heat? “I will not.”  
  
Hamilton’s fingers are tracing soft patterns Laurens may feel even through his clothing, strangely soothing.   
  
“Shall I ask you to promise?” Hamilton sounds as though he jests, but also sounds a small part serious.  
  
Laurens sighs. “I thought we had both decided we ought not make promises that may not be within our power to keep.”  
  
Hamilton is silent a moment, though Laurens can almost hear his mind churning with thoughts in the still air.  
  
And then:   
  
“Aye, my love, and yet foolishly, I ask it anyway.”  
  
Laurens moves so that they pressed against one another, intertwines their legs; Hamilton slides his arm up so that it rests over Laurens’ chest, his throat, hand resting on the back of his neck.   
  
Laurens leans forward, kisses Hamilton ever so gently, ever so slowly, pushes into a sweet, open mouthed kiss, attempts to impart all the love and care he may hold for the one who has somehow stolen his heart so completely.   
  
“Then foolishly, I give my word.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading! It seemed weird to get back into writing scenes *not* at Valley Forge, we really spent a long time there lol xD
> 
> As always, I gotta thank the amazing folks of the amrev discord server; I would absolutely not have gotten this chapter done without them! Btw, we love introducing new folks to the chaos that is our beloved server, go ahead and join if you feel: https://discord.gg/Dp6y57BD3M
> 
> Also, if you’re curious about any of the historical events of this chapter, I really recommend reading McHenry’s journal. It’s a real thing, and it helped my writer’s block so much, because the scenes about Hamilton trying to flirt with the girl McHenry likes really do feature in there xD As does a lot of the military info as well! (I’ve attached a link to it)
> 
> And I doubt Lee ever had Spada at a war council, but humour me; I hate Lee with a passion and will never pass up the chance to make fun of him.
> 
> Some documents used in research (if you’re interested):  
> -“General Orders 20 June 1778” https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/03-15-02-0492   
> -“To George Washington From Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens, 23rd June 1778” https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/03-15-02-0538   
> -“Journal of a March, a Battle, and a Waterfall. By Major James McHenry, Secretary to His Excellency General Washington” (McHenry’s journal)  
> https://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/bcf4e50c-cbdf-6423-e040-e00a18061eb6#/?uuid=bcf4e50c-cbdf-6423-e040-e00a18061eb6 
> 
> French translations:   
> -Votre Excellence: Your Excellency   
> -Mes chers continentaux: My dear Continentals   
> -Peut être: maybe  
> -Comprenez-moi?: Do you understand me?   
> -Je comprends: I understand  
> -Moi aussi: Me too  
> -Mes amis les plus chers: My dearest of friends


	20. The Events at Monmouth Courthouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks <3  
> Oops? I’m so sorry this took so long! Idk what it was about this chapter, but it almost defeated me xD   
> On the plus side, we're entering the home stretch of this fic! There are only a few chapters left, and an epilogue of sorts :) 
> 
> Sadly, uni has started up again, but I’m hoping to organise my work/timetable so that I can still write regularly, and hopefully take no longer than 2-3 weeks to update :D 
> 
> We’re almost nearly there, thanks so much for sticking by this fic of mine! 
> 
> And with that, enjoy!

_Monmouth Court House  
Penelopen Township  
June 28th 1778_

Sharp wind, or the heated air of musket fire, whips past Laurens’ ears, near searing in its impact. At speed, he cannot tell which it may be; only ducks his head in attempt to spur his mount on faster, away from the Queens’ Rangers who pursue them.   
  
This were meant to be a simple—if anything in this war may be simple—reconnoitring of the ground between their army and the British, and yet somehow Cornwallis, or Clinton, has realised from distance who rides alongside Laurens as they scout the ravines, woods and morasses that separate their respective forces.   
  
The man the British have noticed being von Steuben, who reconnoitres alongside Laurens, and whose status must have become known by the enemy, else these men would not pursue them so ardently.   
  
As trees and brush flash by, Laurens notes with relief that they should soon be within sight of their own lines, which should likely discourage any further pursuit.   
  
Lee and Lafayette, along with their battalions, await their scouting information at a bridge spanning the Spotswood Middle Brook on Englishtown road, as General Dickinson had warned the British still occupied Monmouth in full force, and Lee had thus been reluctant to advance forward.   
  
Now, however, Laurens, von Steuben and Walker return at haste with news that this not the case; much of the British force appears to have already vacated the courthouse, leaving only what appears to be a division of dragoons, and the probable rear-guard.   
  
And these damned Rangers that currently pursue them, for the value of von Steuben’s rank.   
  
Laurens had wondered on the merit of sending one as von Steuben, but the Baron would not hear of Laurens attempting such alone.   
  
A branch strikes Laurens across the face as he attempts to duck; a dark object whizzes past in his peripheral and he flinches, hears an angered _goddamn_ on the breeze, and flicks eyes briefly to von Steuben, who appears suddenly hatless, bent low over his horse.   
  
Laurens contains a near hysterical laugh, for it would feel incredibly inappropriate in the circumstances; nevertheless, he hopes the hat may strike some ranger, perhaps knock one off his horse.   
  
He risks a glance behind, notices with relief that Walker still trails close.   
  
And there! Beyond the trees they currently ride through, Laurens finally spots their lines of ragged blue; another glance behind demonstrates that the Rangers have paused, shall likely soon retreat, else they surely fear they may be vulnerable to ambush.   
  
As seems usual in any confrontation with the British, however, they should appear to dislike losing any face against the Continentals; as some last attempt at mayhem in this chase, Laurens feels his horse stumble, scream, rear up, before the stumble becomes a collapse, and he finds himself flung from the saddle—luckily not particularly roughly.   
  
Though slightly winded, and likely later bruised, he be unharmed; unlike his poor horse, which appears to have been shot in the neck, trembling, eyes rolling, and must swiftly be removed from this misery, much as Laurens should hate such a task as that.   
  
Walker halts beside him, offers a quick hand and a desperately shouted _Up!_ else the Rangers take advantage of this moment and perhaps take down man with horse.   
  
Laurens hauls himself onto the back of Walker’s horse, cursing that he should have already lost his mount before battle has even joined, and mourning, for he such a loyal horse until such an untimely end.   
  
Walker hisses as he kicks his mount forward. “That accursed hat should have near taken me out as effectively as any musket would.”  
  
Laurens huffs, shakes his head, sees both Lee and Lafayette mark their frenzied approach towards the bridge.   
  
“Better a hat than a musket.”  
  
He thinks Walker snorts, though it hard to hear over the wind in their ears.

  
Upon reporting what they have so scouted, General Lee decides the numbers of British left at the courthouse should allow for a successful hook behind the back of the British rear-guard, and thus begins to organise such an attack.   
  
General Wayne is ordered to stay and secure the Continental's own rear-guard in place; Lee leading his troops of the vanguard on a left flanking manoeuvre towards Monmouth Courthouse, Lafayette leading his on the right.   
  
Laurens awaits orders, for the rest of the aides—bar Hamilton—remain further back with Washington and the full strength of their army. He has been so assigned to ride between the various commanding Generals, namely Wayne, as well as Maxwell and Scott, who are to command the centre of the vanguard between them.  
  
Hamilton, as Washington had so commanded, is to assist Lafayette with his own command, and relay such messages between his battalion and the main army; though it seems that Lee has forsaken any pretence of Lafayette leading at all, as he appears to give his orders with the idea to replace Lafayette’s command.   
  
As the different detachments begin to mount up, or else move off on foot, Laurens nudges his horse closer to where Hamilton be, head bowed over some missive Lafayette brandishes at him. Though it still early, the heat of the day already begins to build oppressively, and Laurens thinks that perhaps the weather may have as much of a say in the goings of this battle as the combatants.   
  
Both Hamilton and Lafayette are already sweating in the sun; Laurens knows himself in a similar state.   
  
“Be careful,” he murmurs, as he strategically steers his newly acquired horse past the two of them.   
  
Hamilton’s head jerks up at Laurens’ voice; his expression is closed and hard, as though he already prepared to meet the enemy, and it takes a moment for it to melt, allow some soft affection through.   
  
“I would say the same to you, Sir,” Hamilton replies, eyes flicking to see what other officers may listen. “I should not like to reach the end of this fight without you.”  
  
Lafayette, who pretends he does not listen, but clearly does, only keeps eyes on the orders he reads, muttering: “If either of you, _mes imbéciles_ , should be injured, or worse, I should find you myself in some afterlife and kill you again. _Tu comprends?_ ”   
  
Laurens snorts, notices Lee, Wayne and the other Generals begin to move off, wheels his horse to follow.   
  
“Perfectly, _mon cher_ Marquis.”  
  
Hamilton reaches a hand out, squeezes Laurens’ arm; their eyes meet, and Laurens can read the fear, and desperation, and… _love_ quite clear, as though sparks containing these thoughts sear his skin from Hamilton’s gaze.   
  
“Be truly careful, Jack,” Hamilton murmurs. “Do not trust Lee’s judgment.”  
  
Laurens quirks a smile; he is not likely to do _that_. He leans closer Hamilton’s ear. “I love you.”  
  
Hamilton starts, flicks gaze at Lafayette, but it clear he has not heard this. He nods, flushes, squeezes Laurens’ arm again, then releases it. “And I, you.”   
  
Laurens nods also, flicks his horse’s reins, and moves to follow Lee without even a backwards glance; he fears if he were to look back at Hamilton, he may lose the resolve to be parted from him.   
  
As he rides off through the undergrowth, the splatters of marsh mud beginning to itch against sweat-stifled skin, he realises this the first battle they fight post admitting to the love shared between them. He forces himself to think of anything but Hamilton as he begins the task he here for, riding orders and missives between the marching columns.

  
It be not immediately obvious that this fight should not progress the way that were planned on first encountering the British, but as time passes, it begins to grow clearer and clearer. Though Lee’s portion of the vanguard marches for around three miles in an attempt to flank the British on the left, heat begins to already tire both those that walk, and those that ride, so that Laurens fears there may not be much fight left in the men by the time they meet the British, despite any of von Steuben’s preparations and training.   
  
The terrible heat, the flushed faces of the men who lack sufficient water, this a herald of what may come.   
  
Riders between the columns report that the Continental rear-guard, with Wayne, are halted at the junction of the Middletown and Shrewsbury roads, forming up against British dragoons that move northeast, towards the rest of the American column, and away from Monmouth.   
  
These reports are conflicting, however, and information scarce; Laurens, as well as Lee’s aide-de-camp, Captain John Francis Mercer, are sent further towards Wayne’s men; Laurens expects to come across Maxwell and Scott’s divisions as he does so, and is rather alarmed to realise they not where they were expected to be, but figures they hidden somewhat by the morass, undergrowth, and trees.   
  
Mosquitos try for any part of skin left uncovered; as he rides, Laurens shoves his hat further over his face, attempts to push his cravat tighter against his throat, despite the discomfit of the terrible heat. He must continuously blink sweat out of his eyes, which sting where mud follows moisture on the path past his eyelashes.   
  
If only battle would join proper; anything that may distract from the infernal sweltering air, the stinging bites, the splashing mud. His poor horse should also be coated in this abominable sludge; he thinks idly that Meade shall be displeased if his own magnificent beast be covered so in such muck.   
  
Beside Laurens, Mercer curses as some branch whips at his face; ducks as the sound of musket fire, and smell of black powder, begin to encroach on their senses.   
  
Reports prove correct as they two approach Wayne’s division and seek out command; the haze of gunpowder hovers between branches, a man-made fog twisting ominously through the trees.   
  
Wayne is quick to explain why he halted; he were indeed facing British dragoons, and now launches a feint against some British infantry.   
  
The sounds of men yelling, of muskets and pistols firing, the shrieks of horses; these sounds comprise some hellish chorus that somehow sets Laurens’ blood to singing.   
  
Tainted blood surely, if such as this be what should move him to passion, to action?   
  
Laurens desperately wishes to join their men in the fray; can see this same agitated restlessness in Mercer’s eyes as his gaze roves the shambles of the field.   
  
And yet, they both must act the messenger to the damnable Lee. Laurens may only hope that Hamilton sees no more action than he thus far, both for reasons of jealousy should he have done so, and also fear that he may be wounded if he does.   
  
Nonetheless, his thoughts should not be turned to Hamilton when he in the midst of a battle! Though he knows this, desperately strives to push all such thoughts aside, they shall not be silenced, and this an unacceptable problem he knows not how he might solve.   
  
Such is Laurens’ distraction, he near misses Mercer exclaim that he thinks he observes Lee’s portion of the vanguard to their right.   
  
Indeed, through the marsh and trees, there the sounds of men and horse, flashes of continental blue.   
  
“Well.” Mercer raises his voice so that they might be heard over the clashes of steel, as the men make good use of the bayonet training von Steuben so championed. “That should save us some journey at least, for Lee may see your position clear, Sir.” This, addressed to Wayne.  
  
Wayne snorts, shakes his head slightly. “Aye, but this force not what we were led to expect; I wonder if Lee should possess the steadied temperament to manage the change in how this battle may go.”  
  
Mercer narrows his eyes, but says nothing; Laurens supposes he cannot speak ill of one in whose office he works, even if he were to agree with Wayne.

It suddenly strikes Laurens what Wayne has so said—  
  
“Sir?” Laurens feels a shiver of concern. “The force is not what were expected?”  
  
Wayne’s eyes flick over the shrouded field. “Larger. It not just the rear-guard; or perhaps Clinton turns his greater force to fight.” His eyes catch Laurens’ warily, and Laurens realises just how alarmed Wayne appears under his calm veneer. “I have received reports Cornwallis marches more men south of us, past Monmouth.”  
  
Laurens blinks, allows this to sit in his mind and—“ _South_ , you say, Sir?”  
  
Wayne nods sharply. “Aye, past the right flank of our vanguard.”  
  
The right flank—  
  
Lafayette.   
  
And _Hamilton_.   
  
Laurens hastily shoves his hat down further onto his head, takes up his reins. “I must be assured Lee should know of this!”  
  
Wayne purses his lips. “He ought to already.”   
  
Unfortunately, what Lee _ought_ to know, and what he _does_ know—Laurens has little confidence in these two sentiments aligning.

  
It takes longer for Laurens to locate Lee on the field of command than he should like, but it appears, improbable as it should seem, that Lee has so realised what moves the British seek to make, and has acted accordingly, deploying his own men back towards Lafayette on the right flank, where he recognises they now more vulnerable, for the other Generals positioned centre and left.   
  
Impatiently, Lee waves Laurens off, which should irritate Laurens, and also frustrate him, for he wishes to ride for Lafayette’s column, on the small chance he may regard Hamilton, and be assured of his health—though he knows this not what truly needed, and should feel somewhat angry with himself that he thinks to even ask for such a missive when it not required of him.   
  
Instead, Lee dispatches he and Mercer once more, this time to seek out Colonel Henry Jackson, for he and his regiment last ordered to the left flank, on the banks of Spotswood North Brook; Lee wishes to be assured their numbers remain on the left as he moves his to the right, so that the British may not press an advantage there.  
  
Laurens and Mercer also tasked with delivering to Scott and Maxwell Lee’s change in position, for they being neglected by the chain of communication thus far.   
  
A strange spark of unease strikes Laurens at this instruction—though Lee does not put it so bluntly—for he well remembers the dire consequences that may stem from confusion and lack of communication in the field; their loss at Brandywine still attests to such mistakes.   
  
In pursuit of valuable time and haste, Mercer makes for Scott and Maxwell’s position in the centre of the vanguard, Laurens for the left flank, and Jackson.   
  
When Laurens finds Jackson, near swaying in the saddle now from the relentless nature of the sun, the way it saps all energy from limbs, his fears are horribly realised.   
  
Jackson, already fearing isolation in his position when Lee made for the right flank, encountered a new regiment of British, two to three thousand strong; there no way the number of men he commands could be equal to such a fight.   
  
And so, he has pulled back. A move Laurens understands, and one likely somewhat necessary under the circumstances; yet now, their left flank undefended, with a supposed large number of British being rallied by Clinton and turned back from their march to New York, in defence of their rear-guard.   
  
This confrontation here were never meant to engage the entirety of Clinton’s force, not any more than what numbers comprise the rear-guard.  
  
Departing Jackson’s retreating regiment with haste, Laurens feels an ice cold shiver of foreboding invade the sweltering surface of his limbs, trickle eerily down his spine.   
  
This feeling only made worse when he encounters Mercer on his return, who appears also somewhat distressed and alarmed.   
  
“They are not to be found!” he shouts as Laurens approaches, the both of them casting anxious eyes for any impending British.  
  
“Pardon, Sir?” Laurens demands, as he forces his horse to a sharp halt, its limbs dancing anxiously in the undergrowth. “Who is not to be found?”  
  
“Generals Scott and Maxwell!”   
  
Laurens stares. “I—what?”   
  
Mercer gestures fiercely. “They are not still in position; I see only battlefield debris. I suspect, having been unsure of General Lee’s intent pushing to the right, they feared isolation.”  
  
“And so?” demands Laurens, eyes wide. “They have retreated? When further British approach?”  
  
Mercer seems wary of saying such as that exactly. “I suspect they have pulled back slightly, aye, in an attempt to shore up defences.”  
  
Laurens stares, feels his stomach begin to churn uncomfortably. “Our left flank lies completely vulnerable then.”  
  
Mercer’s face is set, hard, though fear shines through his eyes rather clearly. “Aye, indeed.”  
  
“ _Christ_.” Laurens nudges his horse into action, begins to ride hard and fast back towards Lee and Lafayette’s columns; Mercer close behind, judging by the sound of hooves pursuing.   
  
Lee and Lafayette are suddenly to be found in an incredibly precarious position, and with them, Hamilton—Laurens cannot allow such as that.

  
By the time Laurens and Mercer arrive back amongst Lee’s men, all is chaos; men shout, muskets crack, and Lafayette’s forces on the distant right appear to be in a jumbled retreat.   
  
Laurens halts his horse a moment, stares.   
_  
Retreating? Surely not!  
_  
It cannot be that Lee has so decided _retreat_ should be the best of their options? He cannot possibly think that Washington should wish them to fall back, when they could first attempt to summon back some of the centre vanguard, push what momentum they have here?   
  
“Sir!” Laurens shouts. “Sir!”  
  
Lee barely acknowledges him; he is shouting something at Captain du Chesnoy, an aide of Lafayette’s, who glares and immediately rides towards the far right flank, where Lafayette should be stationed.   
  
“Sir!” That Mercer, now. “Sir, Maxwell and Scott have pulled back I believe, for I could not locate their position.”  
  
Lee’s eyes near bulge out his head; he appears the very picture of a man who is rapidly losing control over a situation he were once supremely confident in.   
  
He gestures angrily off towards Lafayette’s command; Laurens strains against the overbearing sun, but can catch no sign of the Marquis, nor the fiery hair of Hamilton.   
  
“That Frenchman failed in his attempt upon some British artillery, and appears to retreat without my express command!”  
  
Laurens resists a glare. Lafayette a Major General, and so ought to be addressed as such, and he also may move at his own discretion; Lee does not rank his superior in this battle.   
  
Lee’s chin appears to jiggle with rage. “And now Scott and Maxwell also? What of Jackson?”  
  
Laurens shakes his head, cannot speak, else fears the rage that begins to build may be evidenced in his tone.   
  
Lee ought not dare to blame the other Generals here, for the broken communication and mismanagement should lay solely at his own feet, in Laurens’ opinion—an opinion he feels well justified in holding.   
  
Lee’s mouth works furiously; nearby, a horse squeals awfully, but he appears to take no notice. “If all retreat against orders, then my battalion cannot sustain this attack alone.” A bead of sweat trickles down his face, slides down his red, shining neck.  
  
Laurens represses a shiver of revulsion.   
  
“We retreat,” Lee suddenly says. “We retreat, then. We fall back to a mile or so west of Monmouth Courthouse, meet the British there instead.”   
  
Laurens stares. “Sir? _Retreat_? A general retreat of the entire vanguard?”  
  
Lee only glares, turns from Laurens, begins ordering aides and nearby officers to communicate with the different regiments’ commanders.  
  
Laurens dispatched also; each time he relays Lee’s order of retreat, the shame burns a little brighter, a little hotter, until it near matches the temperature of the surrounding air, simmering angrily both within and around.   
  
The regiments are already disordered by the continual changes in direction and positioning, the men truly exhausted by the march, the smothering air, so suffocating one near struggles to breathe; this all makes concise communication near impossible.   
  
Regiments begin to fall back in disordered trickles and floods, some scrambling, others refusing to leave off the fight.   
  
Lee’s aides become quickly exhausted; Laurens refuses to join their number, but he too begins to flag, and battle not even properly met in all this!  
  
The field seems a heaving sea of disorganisation; Laurens thinks the British may laugh at the image presented.   
  
Better they had not begun this retreat, fallen in battle, proved to Clinton they be deserving adversaries in this first fight with them he witnesses; now they appear little better than cowed amateurs, and Laurens should attribute this entirely to Lee’s self-important failures.

***

By noon, a fair amount of their army has managed the retreat, if in messy and disjointed form. And yet still, Lee cannot seem to exercise the control required to unify their forces; he has exhausted his own office and their horses in the horrific retreat, and cannot seem to communicate any better than he so did prior to, and during, the retreat.   
  
Though Lee remained projecting some semblance of calm to this point, as their troops finally manage the general retreat in a line stretching from Craig's House, north of Spotswood Middle Brook, to Ker's House, south of the brook, he begins to appear rather more frantic, rather more unsure of their tactical movements.   
  
Where during the retreat Laurens overheard Lee tell another officer he thought this a model retrograde manoeuvre under fire, now he appears to fear the advancing British may hold the more advantageous position here, and dithers on retreating further.   
  
Crucially, Laurens knows Washington is yet to be informed of _any_ of this; he has been sent no word on the retreating Generals, on Jackson, on Lafayette, on Lee’s decisions.   
  
Either side of Laurens, men slump gratefully against the ground despite the insect ridden slush, tussle for what shade can be scrounged up, as the sun continues its relentless ascent overheard. Some exhausted faces indicate an inability to stand again, to fight, and Laurens fears this entire battle may soon be a loss.   
  
He has also not yet relocated Hamilton, nor Lafayette, for their division likely further south than where Laurens finds himself; he has no method of ensuring Hamilton be unharmed, may not ride for information, nor to settle his own racing heart.   
  
He wishes for some British to engage, to cut down, if only to serve as some distraction against these unbearable fears, to provide him some outlet for the terrible anticipation, the awful restlessness.   
  
“General Lee!”   
  
Laurens turns his head abruptly at the familiar tone; sees Fitzgerald weaving in and out of the lines, gaze focused on Lee, not five yards from where Laurens has dismounted.  
  
Laurens catches little of the muttered, heated discussion between them, until Lee suddenly exclaims: “I really do not know what to say!”   
  
He appears flustered, defensive; Fitzgerald incredulous and confused as he wheels his horse away.   
  
“Fitzgerald!” Laurens calls, perhaps somewhat rashly. He feels General Lee’s eyes lock on him angrily, resists the urge to turn away from his gaze, a gaze which threatens strangely.   
  
“Laurens!” Fitzgerald appears somewhat relieved, gazes down from horseback. “Meade were sent earlier, encountered British fire and turned back; we feared you had been overrun.” His eyes flit over Laurens. “I see you have perhaps battled mud instead.”  
  
Laurens grimaces. “Aye, for I act the part of a messenger rather than a soldier.”  
  
Fitzgerald smiles very slightly. “Perhaps just as well for a man of your fighting temperament.”  
  
“Hmm.” Laurens glances over; Lee clearly listens, though he pretends he does not. “General Washington sent you?”  
  
“Aye.” Fitzgerald’s horse dances impatiently. “He wishes news on your engagement, but I see you have yet to meet the British.”  
 _  
Yet to meet_ —has Lee said nothing of the disastrous retreat? That they only wait here now, for they were forced back due to his own incompetence?   
  
Laurens cannot say these things, however, else risk court martial; no matter Washington’s feelings on Laurens, if Lee were to report him, as his superior, his words would have to carry sway.  
  
Laurens frowns. “And how far away should our main body be? We face a greater number here than we supposed.”  
  
Fitzgerald shrugs. “Two, three miles?”  
 _  
Still so far_.   
  
Laurens tries hard not to betray his unease at the situation the Continentals now find themselves in, for if Lee will not admit to their true predicament, Laurens should have no wish to be labelled the part of a coward by a man with such little character himself.   
  
Fitzgerald flicks gaze to Lee. “I shall perhaps tell Washington we may wish to move swiftly with the rest of the men?”  
  
“Aye,” nods Laurens. Fitzgerald makes to move off; Laurens grabs at his reins, almost without thought, without calculation.   
  
“How fare the rest of us?”  
  
Fitzgerald blinks, raises a hand to wipe sweat from his face, smears dirt down his cheek. “We fare well, so much as I am told. I am yet to speak with Hamilton, but I know he has dispatched reports, and so must remain in good health thus far.”  
  
Laurens resists the urge to sag with relief, swallows once, twice; realises just how dry his throat, how dust and smoke seared.   
  
“Some good news, at least.”  
  
Fitzgerald smiles, nods. “Aye.”   
  
Then he is away.   
  
Laurens hopes that he reports accurately to Washington; that he should have noticed the disorganisation, the unease, the exhaustion, read the tense undercurrent that runs through the men here, and know something amiss.   
  
And then, not five minutes post Fitzgerald’s departure, new orders are being shouted, passed along, muttered at: they retreat further, in the face of British pursuit.   
  
It seems Lee has judged the British advance, approaching in column line formation, should soon have control of the ground, render their position impossible. All are ordered to fall back across the Spotswood Middle Brook bridge entirely, take up position further west, at Perrine’s Hill, where the British shall be forced to cross a ravine, and attempt an attack on the higher ground.   
  
Though this _sounds_ logical, it leaves Laurens with an ill taste in his mouth. Who is to say that once the British approach them there, Lee shall not continue retreating? Judge in his cowardice and lack of command that a British win inevitable?   
  
Does he feel true fire for this cause, or only wish for self-preservation, some semblance of control over a battle he has so thoroughly wounded their chances at victory in?   
  
Laurens near wishes Lee himself were British, so that he could lead a charge for his head.   
  
As they march back towards the main army, entire units seem unclear of their destination or purpose, disorder once more swelling the ranks, with some men dropping from the continual marching, the pressing heat.   
  
Laurens gazes through the trees and marsh at the defeated set of the men; they seem to have already accepted this fight be a loss, an idea Laurens _cannot_ condone.   
  
With the French now bringing their navy, and thus likely the battleground shifting somewhat to the sea, this could perhaps be one of the last fights Laurens may prove his valour, and he shall not have it end in disgrace because of General Lee.   
  
Lee, meanwhile, finally dispatches a Major, John Clark, with news of their retreat; Laurens thinks it too little too late, and dishonest to have withheld such for so long from their Commander-in-Chief.

  
As the last of the retreating troops pick their way through the marshes and over the bridge, Laurens with them, for Lee and his aides are also, there be a swell of sudden noise, the sound of galloping hooves over the bridge, calls of _The General!_  
  
Laurens squints against the sun, peers over the heads of the men and—there!   
  
General Washington, along with the rest of the aides, and also Lafayette and Hamilton, with General Wayne, approach at pace.   
  
Even from this distance, Laurens should notice the tense set to Washington’s shoulders, the hard look on his face, the colour high on his cheeks that likely indicates not just the horrendous heat, but also anger.   
  
“General Lee!” shouts Washington, as he finally spots the man he clearly searching for. “I desire to know, Sir, what is the reason—Whence arises this disorder and confusion?”  
  
The tone to his voice is angered, swelling with demand, with command, and Laurens sees clear the surprise and apprehension on Lee’s face—he not likely to have yet witnessed the General in a rage.  
  
“Sir?” Lee stammers, and if seeing one so pompous as Lee reduced to a single stuttered word does not satisfy Laurens somewhat after all that has occurred this morn, he be not sure what should.   
  
Behind Washington, Meade turns his face away, hides beneath the brim of his hat. By the manner his shoulders shake slightly, Laurens thinks he attempts to control entirely inappropriate mirth.   
  
Washington waves an irate hand over the ranks of retreating men.   
  
“What is the meaning of this retreat? This confusion? Men march past with no knowledge of their orders, their positioning! For what reason has this occurred? And no British in sight!”  
  
Lee blinks, swipes a hand across his sweating brow. “I—Sir—”   
  
“Well, General?” demands Washington. The hot anger in his voice has faded somewhat, to a timbre Laurens recognises as disappointed; a cold simmering rage that may yet build itself up once more.   
  
Lee presses his lips together, draws himself upwards. His eyes flick over his aides, and the aides of Washington, who have all now witnessed his break in composure, his public humiliation at Washington’s hands. His eyes tighten.   
  
“I received faulty intelligence, Sir. And then I were left with no choice but to order a retreat, for my Generals, as Scott, pulled back without my directive, leaving our flank entirely undefended against a superior force.”  
  
Laurens resists a glare. He can feel Hamilton’s eyes on his face, glances up to meet them. His eyebrows are raised. He clearly thinks there more to this also, but Laurens cannot say anything here, as much as he should wish to.   
  
Washington is silent a moment. His eyes flick towards Laurens briefly, but his thoughts remain concealed.   
  
Finally, he brings the weight of his gaze back to Lee, who seems to shrink a little.   
  
“All this may be very true, Sir,” Washington says, tone now carefully measured, though Laurens can sense some disproval still; Washington should dislike Commanders who blame their inferiors for their mistakes. “But you ought not to have undertaken an attack, unless you intended to go through with it.”  
  
Lee gapes a second; though the noise of the men continues around them, there be complete silence amongst the aides and Generals.   
  
Laurens risks a glance in Hamilton’s direction again; their gazes meet, and there is open glee within Hamilton’s eyes, dancing across his face. He should relish Lee being brought low; Laurens should also, and yet he suddenly more focused on the flush to Hamilton’s face, the tense set to his shoulders.   
  
Once more, his care for Alexander eclipses all else he should think of, and is this not such a dangerous thing?   
  
“How far off is the British advance?” Washington has turned away from Lee; directs his questions at his aides, at the other gathered Generals, at Lafayette.   
  
“Perhaps a half mile, _Monsieur_?” volunteers Lafayette, with a glance at Lee so cold Laurens himself near shivers.   
  
Washington nods. “We shall need a delay, then, so that our main body given time to reach us. We require a defence here; this vanguard shall attack as they approach, so that we may deploy the main body from Perrine’s Hill when it reaches us.”  
  
Laurens watches feverishly as Washington effortlessly sidesteps Lee’s command, takes charge, begins issuing tactical orders, military positions that ought surprise the British.   
  
Beside Lee’s wavering and uncertainty of the morn, it clear who the far superior commander; which of these two men should help turn this battle into some hopeful semblance of a victory.   
  
Even as Washington rides past the enlisted men, their backs seem to straighten, the heatstroke seems to lessen miraculously, exhausted postures switch to alertness, muskets cleaned and loaded hastily with sweat and mud-slicked fingers.   
  
If the General’s presence alone may save this fight, then surely Congress shall realise once and for all that he be the best candidate for the Command of this army? Any naysayers should be silenced; to Laurens’ mind, Lee himself barely deserves to keep his command, let alone challenge Washington’s position.   
  
Having swiftly taken charge of the once disordered regiments, Washington orders General Wayne to take three battalions and form a rear-guard, south of Spotswood Middle Brook, in Point of Woods; the idea being that they ought be concealed until the British march past, and then attack, delay them further.   
  
Laurens desperately wishes to be assigned to Wayne’s battalions, for they certain to meet the British on the field.   
  
He is, however, assigned to remain with Lee, wherever he may yet be commanded to; he wonders if perhaps this because Washington desires one of his men able to watch Lee at all times, but though he somewhat honoured to be regarded in this manner, he would much prefer to end this battle far from the odious General.   
  
Washington then orders the 2nd New Jersey Regiment, two Pennsylvanian regiments, and Lafayette’s battalion, to deploy on the slopes of Perrine’s Hill, overlooking the bridge to the north of the brook; they are to be the rallying point for the remainder of the vanguard, and where the main body of the army will form up upon arrival.  
  
Lee, who has only watched through narrowed eyes and a displeased expression as Washington takes command, be given a choice; he not relieved of command entirely, as he has likely feared, and as Laurens had desperately hoped.   
  
In the end, Lee chooses to stay and command what has become the rear-guard, the battalion that shall delay the British, instead of falling back to organise the main body. He promises Washington he shall be the last of the Americans to re-cross the bridge; Laurens wonders if this should actually be so.  
  
This does, however, ensures Laurens should likely see some action after all, a fact he ought not be so grateful for, and yet it always there, that yearning to turn and _fight_.   
  
Hamilton dispatched with Lafayette again; as they turn to take their leave, he rides as close to Laurens as he should likely dare under General Washington's watchful eye.   
  
“Take care, Jack,” he whispers, eyes appearing somewhat desperate and wary. “I am not convinced of Lee’s loyalty, nor his defence of his actions.”  
  
Laurens stares a moment. He, too, has heard the rumours of Lee’s loyalties, has wondered at them himself, but for Hamilton to imply this a _deliberate_ tactic on his part—  
  
“Do you really think—” he begins; Hamilton silences him with a sharp look as his horse skitters.   
  
“I think many things of Lee; I hope none of them correct.”  
  
Laurens nods, briefly touches a hand to Hamilton’s, before withdrawing. “Are you alright, my dear?” he murmurs.   
  
A couple yards away, Meade’s glance flicks to them, and then away again carefully.   
  
Hamilton grimaces. “Aye; only hot and thirsty, as all are.” His gaze catches on Laurens’ dirtied skin and clothing. “Though I have not fought quite such a battle with mud, nor insects, as yet.”  
  
Laurens rolls his eyes. “Stay safe,” is all he gently replies.   
  
“Aye,” says Hamilton. His eyes soften; his tone grows near inaudible. “ _Je t’aime_.”   
  
Laurens freezes, says nothing in reply as Hamilton rides off to accompany Lafayette to Perrine’s Hill.   
  
This such a risk to take! More so than Laurens' spoken affection of earlier, for yes, it true the only other French speakers present here be Lafayette, who cares not, and Tilghman, who be out of hearing distance for such a quiet tone, but…the brashness of it!  
  
Hamilton truly just spoke _I love you_ so boldly in front of General Washington!   
  
Laurens shakes his head to clear it, mulls the words over in his mind. Such a brazen declaration, murmured or not…Hamilton forgets himself.   
  
As Laurens rides with Lee to where he shall command two battalions, with four guns, on the crest of a hill to the right of Wayne’s concealed men, he ponders on Hamilton’s willingness to speak of such things unhidden; how bold he were in Meade’s knowledge, in Lafayette’s, and again finds himself uneasily pondering where this should end after the war.

***

Lee, Wayne, and the rear-guard’s delay lasts only a little over thirty minutes, and Laurens barely sees action in it; only having cause to load his musket once or twice, raise his pistol a handful of times.   
  
Still, whilst a disappointment in this way, to the credit of Washington’s tactical planning, it achieves its ends; the main army given enough time to form up, so that when some British Grenadiers follow Lee’s battalion across the bridge, they first meet with Wayne’s reformed detachment, and then Stirling’s artillery, for he stationed behind Wayne’s men some 350 yards further up Perrine’s Hill. This causes the British Grenadiers to retreat rapidly back across the bridge.   
  
From what Laurens may witness as they approach the main body, Washington has successfully established a strong defensive line on the Englishtown road; the General quickly approaches them, though not accompanied by Laurens’ fellow aides, and orders Lee further back to Englishtown to form a reserve, with some of Maxwell’s New Jersey brigade, half Scott’s detachment, and a few other assorted units of his former vanguard.   
  
Lee does not seem pleased by this; in fact, he appears incredibly irate that he now being, effectively, forced from the field, and the action that should likely take place.   
  
Laurens feels that this what the man deserves, for if this should end any part a victory, Lee ought to have no credit for it.   
  
As Lee gathers his men to march north-westward, Laurens feels Washington’s gaze land on him.   
  
“Laurens?” The General says quietly. “I presume you should not like to accompany Lee any further?”  
  
Laurens thinks on how best to speak his mind. “I should always prefer to remain in the fight.”  
  
“Hmm.” Washington surveys him. “Indeed.” He casts his eyes over the field, where the British begin to form lines, establish artillery, for a likely assault on the American position. “I think we must speak on the events of this morning at length, but for now, you may be assigned to Wayne.”  
  
Laurens nods and assents; they must speak of Lee’s disgraceful and cowardly conduct indeed.  
  
“Sir?” he suddenly finds himself asking, though he were not intending to. “How fares Hamilton?” He pauses. “And the rest of our office?”   
  
Washington regards him a moment, a strange expression crossing his face for a split second, before it lifts. “Hamilton still with the Marquis; I have stationed them on the left flank, further uphill. The rest remain with me, though are currently delivering missives. All fare well, and shall be glad to hear the same of you.”  
  
Laurens nods again, and they part ways; the General to rally the men, Laurens to seek out Wayne on the right flank.

  
What follows be a battle of artillery, near two hours in length to Laurens’ estimations. The constant pressing heat should prove the deadlier of the enemies; it soon clear both sides should likely lose more men to the sun, and lack of water, than to one another’s cannons.   
  
In this brutal heat, with the Americans occupying the advantageous ground, it should seem that, at long last, Clinton may begin some kind of withdrawal.   
  
It appears barely noticeable at first, only a subtle shift in how well the British line holds, but then Laurens sent by Wayne to ask Greene how he fares, for he with General Woodford’s brigade, and du Plessis’ guns, establishing a crossfire artillery position at Comb’s Hill.  
  
Greene appears incredibly pleased to see Laurens approach; he were just about to dispatch his own messenger it seems, for his artillery opening fire has caused Clinton’s artillery to withdraw, and his Grenadiers to begin a retreat.   
  
Laurens rides hard and fast back towards Wayne and the General with this news, where he learns that Clinton’s artillery has ceased firing across no man’s land, and that Washington has sent several battalions to harass the enemy’s right flank, as the withdrawal spreads across the greater span of Clinton’s army.   
  
Though pleased they seemed to have scrounged a somewhat victorious result from what at first appeared a clear loss, Laurens curses that he yet to see much proper action; only stoops under musket fire and gunpowder as he delivers messages, sweating and itching in the sun.   
  
This should be exactly what his father expected from an aide’s position in the field, and precisely what Laurens had dreaded in each battle previous; now it seems it should have come to pass, and exactly when he feels he may not have much chance left at valour.   
  
Washington, meanwhile, does not possess the exact intelligence as to what the British withdrawal may mean, but their artillery falling silent appears a good sign. He decides he shall send Wayne over the bridge to pursue their retreating forces, harry them, strike a blow with an opportunistic advance, assigning him a four hundred strong Pennsylvanian brigade.   
  
And here—! This where Laurens may seize his chance.   
  
“Permission to remain with General Wayne, Sir?” he asks hurriedly, as Washington turns from Wayne to address Meade, who has just appeared with missive from Colonel Cilley, the commander who harasses the retreating British on the right flank.   
  
Washington turns back towards Laurens, eyebrows raised, though he does not appear truly surprised at the request. His eyes flit over Laurens’ face, seem to search it, though Laurens be not entirely sure what for, or why.   
  
“Wayne requires none of my aides as messengers in this venture, I think.”  
  
General Wayne, however, appears to have been listening. He smiles slightly. “If you may spare him, I have heard tell of Lieutenant Colonel Laurens’ character on the field. We might find use for him yet.”  
  
Laurens feels oddly about being addressed this way, when he not commissioned, by Washington does not correct Wayne. He regards the two of them carefully.   
  
Finally, he says: “Permission granted, Laurens. Though I shall be incredibly unhappy if you return in anything less than one piece.”  
  
“Sir,” Laurens replies, feels himself tense, allows that anticipation, that adrenalin, that _need_ to seep back into his limbs, drive the heat exhaustion from where it stifles. “I shall endeavour to do so.”  
  
Wayne grins widely—his reputation for slight madness in battle shining clear—and gestures forward, raising his sword, yelling for his men to follow across the bridge, find themselves some British to harry, to terrify, to kill.   
  
Laurens grins also, feels all logical thoughts of Hamilton, of his father, of the other aides, of his wife, his daughter, leave his mind completely, overtaken by _here_ , by _now_ , by the smell of black powder, of horse sweat, of heated marsh mud and the yells of men ready, long overdue, for a fight.

  
Once across the bridge, their detachment falls upon the British, allows them scant time to form up against the attack; still, these men of an elite Grenadier battalion, and the fighting is fierce, savage, desperate.   
  
Laurens finds himself up against men with likely far better training than he; though he mounted still, he must slash and parry with growing desperation, seeks any and all uniforms of the British, uses pistol where he may, sword where he may not, parries a thrust that passes dangerously close to his chest, and finds some savage glee in the sound of clashing metal.   
  
The spray of warm blood, its metallic smell, these things once more feel familiar, feel _right_ , a situation in which he knows what he must do, what he must achieve, what he must channel every ounce of his will towards.   
_  
This_ what he feels he were built for, _this_ what he thinks he may succeed in, what he _wants_ to succeed in. Where Hamilton has his words, Laurens has his steel, and if that should paint him in an ill light to those that one day learn of their war, there little he can do, but hope they understand the necessity of these men that fought for liberty.   
  
He can only pray that they may think John Laurens were a success in the field, for he feels he has very little else he may achieve in, and so desperately wishes to excel here.   
  
Each redcoat he might strike down, this one step closer to the military valour he wishes to be remembered for, and he—  
  
A continental, one of the Pennsylvania brigade, stumbles and falls right in front of Laurens, a spray of red mist erupting from the side of his face; Laurens desperately yanks at his horse’s reins to attempt a rapid sidestep, and a branch from a nearby tree rips across his cheek, stings as the cut mingles with sweat and mud.   
  
Laurens slaps a free hand to it, realises it bleeds somewhat freely, glances up and away; his eyes roam desperately for the source of the American soldier’s demise, for they were in a brief pocket of undergrowth free from British, sees a Grenadier not five yards away lift a musket, aim up, fire—  
  
Laurens ducks, attempts to wrench his horse out of the path of the ball, but she screams, stumbles, falls heavily to her knees, and he be vaulted roughly from her back, falls heavily against the side of a tree, hits his head.   
  
Lying completely winded on the ground, head aching, he realises there also a terrible pain in his shoulder, though he thinks it not enough for having been shot, experienced in this as he already be.   
  
Blearily, he attempts to raise his head, vision swimming; thinks he sees the Grenadier approach cautiously, pistol raised now, trained at Laurens’ head.   
  
Though his limbs seem to wish otherwise, he forces his arms to movement, scrabbles through the mud and sludge for his pistol, prays it may still fire after such an encounter with the damned marshes that dot this terrain.   
  
The Grenadier must see what he intends, for Laurens hears the sound of the flintlock cocking. He manages to twist to the side, head thumping with pain, raises his own pistol to fire at the same moment the Grenadier does so.   
  
The noise of simultaneous pistol shots should not be so deafening in the context of the larger battle, and yet they somehow are.   
  
Laurens braces for pain, half convinced this may be where he meets his end, but then the eruption, the numbness, the searing hurt he remembers—none of this eventuates, and he raises his head.   
  
The Grenadier lies in the marsh mud, gasping and shaking, wounded in the throat; Laurens miraculously unharmed.   
  
His eyes lock on the Grenadier’s ruined throat, images suddenly flooding his mind of another battle, another man, another wound, another death rattle.   
  
He desperately shoves himself to standing position, reloads his pistol with shaking fingers and a racing heart, eyes casting through the morass for any more British soldiers.   
  
When he fires a second time, the Grenadier ceases breathing. 

He cannot look at the man’s face, else see the pale, dead face of White staring accusingly back at him.

  
Laurens shakily determines his shoulder bruised only; decides his head should survive further battle yet. With his horse quite clearly deceased, he instead moves off on foot, locates a knot of British soldiers surrounding a lone Continental, and dives back into the fray, forcibly removing all memory of White from his mind by focusing only on each parry and thrust of his sword.

  
Though Washington pushes some reserve forward to take Stirling’s place, allowing he and General Woodford to pursue the retreating British on opposite flanks, the armies settle down and withdraw as night falls, camping with merely a mile between them.   
  
Laurens wearily locates the other aides-de-camp, where McHenry fusses over his head, which sports a large lump now, and his bruised shoulder, which it seems were injured by a near spent musket ball.   
  
Fitzgerald, it appears, were also injured in the fight, with musket ball to shoulder; his injury the worst of the aides, and he confined to rest in the house of Moses Laird, where Washington has established headquarters for the eve.   
  
As for Hamilton, when he finally located, it seems he were also thrown from his horse; suffering from heatstroke and exhaustion, as well as injuries gained in the fall, he were apparently forced to retire from the field, and appears increasingly irate that Laurens did not also retire.   
  
“You were quite clearly suffering some concussion!”   
  
Meade, who leans up against his horse in the dark, for he lucky enough not to have lost it in the fray, chuckles.   
  
“I think you have little advantage in this fight, Hammie, for I were told you also fought akin to a man seeking death.”  
  
Laurens rolls his eyes. “Well then, Sir.”  
  
McHenry, who makes to leave for Laird’s House, and Fitzgerald, shakes his head. “I think you both as ridiculous as each other.”  
  
Meade snorts. “A foolish pair indeed.”  
  
Laurens, still with pounding head, resists a retort at this obvious taunt.   
  
Hamilton settles down beside him on the ground. With Tilghman the only other aide now present (as Harrison somewhere with the General), and he already attempting some sleep on his bedroll, uncaring of the mud, it seems Hamilton should feel once more emboldened.   
  
He lays his head on Laurens’ shoulder; Laurens resists the urge to tense, for he knows Meade watches, and though he aware, and jests often, open displays of affection between them with Meade present should still occur but rarely.   
  
“I would scold you for your carelessness, but that I fear I would receive the same scolding,” Hamilton murmurs softly against Laurens' skin, though he so muddied he sure this must seem somewhat unpleasant.   
  
Laurens rolls his eyes. “Aye. Indeed you would.”  
  
“Except, dear Jack—” Here, Hamilton takes his hand softly, squeezes it. “I know that you asked to be placed in such danger, whereas I only happened upon it where I were ordered.”  
  
Laurens sighs, removes his hand from Hamilton’s grasp, casts a careful glance at Meade, who be tactically gazing elsewhere.   
  
“I shall always fight, Alexander. You know this.”  
  
“Hmm.” Hamilton sits up straighter, removes his head from where it lies, lowers his tone. “You may always fight, that true, and yet it seems you may not fight for after.”  
  
Laurens knows not what to say to that, nor what has brought such on; Hamilton is, after all, the one who berated Laurens for worrying on them after the war.   
  
“Hamilton,” he says softly instead. “I am glad you are unharmed.”  
  
Hamilton sighs; his skin still feels too hot, too flushed, though the sun has long since set, and the humidity grows heavier, colder.   
  
“Likewise,” he whispers.   
  
Then, in louder tone. “I should hope Lee may face a court martial for this.”  
  
Meade, clearly sensing he being invited back into the conversation, sits down beside them in the mud.   
  
“One can only hope so; I heard much criticism of his conduct, that for sure.”  
  
“Criticism should be too gentle a word,” Laurens mutters.   
  
“Yes, yes.” That Tilghman, alarming all with his sudden outburst. “Lee is a blight on our fine forces. And you are all a blight on my fine sleep.”  
  
Meade huffs a laugh. “Aye, Sir.” If he notices Laurens and Hamilton lay their bedrolls rather close together, he says nothing, but to tilt his head at Tilghman’s turned back, in perhaps some plea that they be a little more subtle.

***

_Continental Army Encampment  
Englishtown   
June 29th – 30th 1778_

When they awake at dawn, the British have stolen away into the night, marking the end of this fight near Monmouth Courthouse.   
  
However, unlike any battle so fought previously, the British have left their dead and wounded behind to the mercy of the Continentals, for the Americans still occupy the field. A retreat without one’s wounded or dead; to Laurens, that marks a defeat on the part of the British, no matter what official documents might say of this day.   
  
This somewhat victory is soon soured, however, by the conduct of one General Charles Lee. Whilst in all likelihood his conduct could have gone ignored, if he had only remained silent, neglected to draw attention to himself, instead, he pens General Washington an extraordinary letter, demanding some apology for how the Commander-in-Chief addressed him on the field.   
  
The aides, all crammed into a small room of Laird’s House post the battle, which they have made into their temporary office, listen intently as Meade reads:  
  
“The success of the day were entirely owing to the manoeuvres I supervised—”   
  
“I beg your pardon?” Tilghman demands. “Lee truly said that?”  
  
“And not only that!” Meade’s tone turns to even more obvious incredulity. “He insists he does not blame Washington for their encounter on the field, but says instead that it were ‘instigated by some of those dirty earwigs who will forever insinuate themselves near persons in high office’.” Meade’s eyes flick to Laurens. “By which I suppose he means us. Or more specifically you, Laurens, for you were a witness to his conduct, and also Hamilton, for his apparent influence with Washington.”  
  
“I wish I truly possessed the level of influence Lee so supposes,” Hamilton chuckles darkly. “Did he really name us _earwigs_?”   
  
“Dirty earwigs,” Meade corrects. “And if the General had not already replied to instruct Lee that his letter highly improper, that Lee made an unnecessary, disorderly and shameful retreat, and that he initiating an inquiry into his conduct, I would insist such slights against your honour ought not go unanswered.”  
  
Laurens only stares at the battle account he reads, tries desperately not to crumple it. That Lee would _dare_ impugn upon his honour, imply he should insinuate himself into Washington’s office in such an unsavoury way, when Laurens has not even so much as spoken out against Lee—yet.   
  
“I sincerely hope he court martialled,” Laurens mutters. “And if he is, that I should be called as a witness.”  
  
Harrison looks up from where he works. “I think that likely, if he indeed be court martialled.”  
  
Tilghman grins rather wickedly. “Now, _that_ a battle of words I should most like to watch.”  
  
At that moment, McHenry enters the office, seeming rather shaken.   
  
Tilghman sobers immediately. “Fitzgerald? I hope he does not take a turn for the worse?”  
  
McHenry shakes his head. “Indeed, no; he recovers well thus far. I were—I think I may have encountered some men yet loyal to Lee.”  
  
“Ah.” Meade makes a face. “I suspect some creative insult has so shaken you?”  
  
McHenry shrugs. “Nay, not particularly creative, nor even insulting, for one cannot be so insulted when such a word does not apply anyhow. It were more the tone, the violence in their manner; I am certain had other officers not been watching, it may have come to blows.” He quirks a small grin. “And by that, I mean I should have been the target.”  
  
Tilghman raises his eyebrows. “How any may remain loyal to that man I do not know. What did they so say?”  
  
McHenry waves a hand. “Only insinuated that all in our office were lowborn bastards or some such; truly, it mattered not.”  
  
McHenry is correct; this really not a proper impingement of any’s honour here.   
  
Hamilton, however, has gone oddly pale, though his eyes glint with some strange rage. He abruptly rises from his seat, hurries out the door.   
  
Meade’s eyes fall upon Laurens, questioning, but Laurens may only shake his head, for he knows not the issue.   
  
He does know that he ought to follow Hamilton and find out.

  
Hamilton, it turns out, has not gone far; only round the back of the house, staring blankly off into the distance, fists clenched tight.   
  
“Hamilton?” Laurens tries softly. “Alexander?”  
  
Hamilton turns to look at him, but there an odd expression on his face, one that seems caught between regret and remembrance.   
  
Laurens steps closer, takes Hamilton’s hand. “Are you alright, my dear?”   
  
Hamilton shrugs a little helplessly, looks away, jaw set. The strange expression is suddenly chased away by anger, and what seems a sort of defiance.   
  
“I have been called a bastard many times,” is all he finally says. Even these words seem choked out violently, as though they protest at their creation, even as they given air and sound.   
  
Laurens feels he missing some important piece to the context being constructed, wishes he knew its image, so that he could search for it.   
  
He steps closer again, entwines their fingers.   
  
“Hamilton” he says softly. “It is only a word, and a word that be thrown at most men at some point in their lives. It means nothing, does not impugn on your honour, nor your achievements, for—”  
  
Hamilton’s face is oddly blank as he interrupts Laurens’ assurances, voice flat, cutting in a manner that stills the air entirely.   
  
“It is only a word,” he replies in a tight murmur. “If you are not one.”  
  
“I—” Halted so abruptly during his passionate defence of Hamilton’s honour, Laurens stumbles. “Pardon?”   
  
“It is only,” Hamilton repeats, near numbly, gaze eerily far away. “A word, if you are not one.”  
  
Laurens stares; Hamilton avoids his eye completely, no matter how he should attempt to meet it.   
  
“For if you are one,” Hamilton grits his teeth. “A bastard. If you are, then this be no mere word. Each time it employed against you, it strips you to all but the barest of truths, to the circumstances of your birth, that which none may control, and yet are judged for by all. It removes any semblance of legitimacy from all achievements, all discourse surrounding one’s character; instead labels you with the dishonour due your parents, and so cuts to the rawest of characteristics: that you were born illegitimate, and should therefore never recover from this slight in which you had no part.”  
  
“Alexander—“ Laurens knows not entirely what words he thinks to forestall, what pain he seeks to block, and yet—  
  
Hamilton shakes his head, eyes blank, jaw lifted in painful pride, pride which knows it likely stands on little but air.   
  
“ _I_ am a bastard, John.”  
  
Laurens holds his breath a moment, only squeezes Hamilton’s hand tighter. This sort of revelation about Hamilton’s past he were not at all expecting, but he at pains to ensure he does not believe Laurens should love him any less for it.   
  
“Alexander, I do not—”   
  
Hamilton rapidly shakes his head. “Such an insult as they bestow upon us is no mere word to me, but instead a reminder that I am not fit for the likes of you, nor the General, nor this office.”  
  
“Alexander, that is not—“   
  
Hamilton steps back, pulls his hand from Laurens’ grasp. “Not what? Not true? ’Tis painfully true; any witness to the documents of my birth should attest to it gleefully, I am sure.”  
  
Laurens frowns. “No, my dear boy; it is not true that such should make you unfit for the likes of me, nor the General, nor this office. Your achievements, your character, so far outweighs any I might—“  
  
Hamilton takes another step back. “Tell me, Jack, and tell me true: if I were a woman, promised to you, and illegitimate, would there be any way your father would approve such a match?”  
  
Laurens shudders. “He should have no say in my care for you, nor is my care for you based on any such circumstances of birth—“  
  
Hamilton presses his lips together. “No. But I were suddenly reminded just how far this gulf in opportunity stretches between us. I am a _bastard_ , John. And you the son of the President of Congress.”  
  
Laurens sighs; instead of reaching for Hamilton’s hand again, he reaches up, places a hand either side of Hamilton’s face.   
  
Hamilton stills; Laurens feels how the muscles in his jaw tense.   
  
“If such a fool as Charles Lee and his accursed loyalists should put this space between us, where sin, and threats, and fear, have so far failed to, I would shoot him right here, now, in front of you.”  
  
Hamilton blinks, manages a weak laugh. “Please do not, for if he instead shot you, I would be forced to kill him.”  
  
“A loss, I am sure,” Laurens mutters sarcastically; this seems to surprise a laugh from Hamilton. His hands rise to rest on Laurens’ hips.   
  
“I apologise, my love. I only—words such as this, they bring back memories I would rather remained hidden.”  
  
Laurens nods, should understand completely. “And I would protect this knowledge from discovery.” He pauses, leans forward to kiss Hamilton very gently. “I thank you for trusting me with it.”  
  
Hamilton blinks, seems to pause a moment. “I think, eventually, there be very little I would want hidden from you, Jack; I would one day hope you may know all of me. Such a foreign concept to my thinking, but true nonetheless.”  
  
Laurens freezes, for though he asks this trust from Hamilton, he will not bestow it himself? He should keep such large parts of himself guarded, when Hamilton has so trusted him with knowledge that could ruin him, quite apart from anything they attempt here?  
  
To save himself from replying, from the guilt that he knows may soak his tone, Laurens instead kisses Hamilton again, and wishes desperately that he were not so great a coward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Disclaimer: No wonder our favourite (ha!) General Lee got rather confused at Monmouth; my brain was spinning trying to reconstruct an outline of what occurred (although I, unlike Lee, do not claim to be a military professional xD). 
> 
> It may be that I have placed Laurens, or Hamilton, or Lafayette, or many others besides, in places they were not; as usual, I plead artistic license. If you want a completely accurate account of Monmouth, there are *many* historical texts that cover the subject. Don’t rely on my fic! ;) (like really, please don’t xD I’m historically accurate to a point, and that point was lost early on in this battle)
> 
> von Steuben did, however, apparently lose that hat. And Laurens did have a horse, (if not two, for dramatic fic purposes), shot from under him, though I may have got the timings of when this occurred incorrect. 
> 
> Washington’s apparent "real life" quotes when admonishing Lee that I used in dialogue came from ‘Fatal Sunday: George Washington, the Monmouth Campaign, and the Politics of Battle’ by Garry Wheeler Stone and Mark Lender, if you’re interested :)


	21. A Court Martial of Significance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks <3
> 
> I’m so so sorry this update took so long. The unholy trinity of university work, mental health, and focusing issues joined together to create one giant and cursed delay, but I’m getting there :)
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter; there are not that many left after all ;)

_Ross Hall  
New Brunswick   
July 4th – 7th 1778 _

The fourth of July, 1778, shall be a day that Laurens long remembers, for reasons both good and ill. It the second anniversary of Congress declaring their nation’s independence; Washington has already had their army line the road and fire their rifles _feu de joie_ , in celebration of this momentous date, met by the boom of thirteen canons.

He has also allowed a double ration of rum for the day; Laurens suspects this the celebration most men ardently prefer, for the entire camp should now seem in good spirits, despite the awful march that saw them to New Brunswick, twenty miles through awful, stifling, rain slicked sand, with very little water to be had.

The joyous tone of the day yet meets with strangeness, for Laurens—alongside Hamilton and the other aides called upon—now sits in the room of a local tavern, kindly offered to them for their purposes, as it near to their current Headquarters at Ross Hall.   
  
The room has been set as though a court room, if a rather haphazard version, with several tables that should usually be enthusiastically crowded with patrons, arranged into one long table filled by the judges—four Brigadier Generals and eight Colonels—and presided over by General Lord Stirling.   
  
General Lee is seated still, at present; face red and angry, eyes repeatedly darting over the faces of Washington’s aides.  
  
Though Laurens has fronted rooms of both men and women intent on judging him, there seems some different sort of sternness when facing a line of uniformed figures, expressions hard and lined, eyes sharp and piercing. Even so, he desperate to face this court, to be called upon to speak of the events that landed them here, for he must make known how terribly General Lee led their army, before Lee may have chance to twist words in his favour.  
  
Still, Laurens does not envy the man that must face this court first.   
  
The Judge Advocate for Lee’s trial is named John Lawrence, much to the amusement of Meade, who sits to the left of Laurens this day, and elbows him each time the man may stand to make a point.   
  
Lawrence stands now, and so a sharp elbow soon follows. Laurens resists the urge to smack Meade on the arm; uses subtlety to poke Hamilton in the leg instead, for he whispers: “If you are called, Lawrence to Laurens shall be confusing indeed.”  
  
Laurens only rolls his eyes. “If I am called.”  
  
Hamilton raises his eyebrows. “They already call Meade, Fitzgerald and I; I should think it most ill if they do not call you also.”  
  
Laurens frowns; if he not called, he might assume some bias in the court for Lee already, as he were beside him in battle so long.  
  
Lawrence, meanwhile, proceeds with swearing in Lord Stirling, the judges, and himself, before turning to the watching rows of men to read the charges of the prosecution against Lee.   
  
“First,” reads Lawrence clearly. “For disobedience of orders, in not attacking the enemy on the twenty-eight of June, agreeable to repeated instructions.”   
  
Lee’s mouth tightens, but he makes no other motion in reaction to the first charge.   
  
“That shall be the hardest to prove, I think,” Hamilton murmurs.   
  
Laurens tilts his head slightly. “Truly? Did none see—”   
  
Hamilton shakes his head, mutters softly. “When and how the orders were given, this a matter difficult to ascertain. But we shall see. We shall hope.”  
  
“Second,” continues Lawrence. “For misbehaviour before the enemy on the same day, by making an unnecessary, disorderly and shameful retreat.”  
  
Laurens grits his teeth. “That I think I might prove with ample evidence.”  
  
Meade’s eyes flick towards him, but he says nothing.   
  
“Thirdly.” Lawrence’s gaze rests on Lee rather deliberately. “For disrespect to the Commander-in-Chief, in two letters dated the first July and the twenty-eighth of June.”  
  
“And that,” Hamilton mutters angrily, bitterly, harshly, “Should have no issue being proved, for it not merely an accusation, but a solid, irrefutable fact.”  
  
Laurens grits his teeth. “I think all the charges should be.”   
  
“To us, aye.” Meade, it seems, has overheard them. “To others, it may not be so.”  
  
The aides fall silent as Lee stands; as is to be expected, he pleads not guilty.  
  
“He shall represent himself?” mutters Meade.   
  
Laurens leans towards him so that they may not be overheard, nor reprimanded by Lawrence.   
  
“Certainly; he should be arrogant enough to write the General in such a manner as he did, why not arrogant enough to believe he may defend himself with success?”  
  
Meade seems to repress a snort. “Perhaps we may hope that this should cause his losing, then.”  
  
A few rows ahead of them, General Wayne glances round; Meade carefully returns gaze to Lawrence.  
  
On Laurens’ other side, Hamilton is glaring down at the floor. “I should only hope Lee’s defending himself portrays arrogance, and not some assurance that he knows he may win.”  
  
Laurens flicks eyes towards him. “You seem determined to pessimism, Sir.”  
  
Hamilton taps Laurens’ knee lightly, nudges his boot against Laurens’. “I do not mean to claim pessimism; I only have little belief that one with such status as Lee should be found guilty, even when he be that for certain.”  
  
Laurens glances around cautiously before laying a hand on Hamilton’s knee briefly. “Then we must wound him as best we can with our words; ensure they paint a picture of who the man truly be.”  
  
Hamilton blinks. A small, sharp smirk crosses his lips, before swiftly fading as his face sets in determination.   
  
“Oh, aye.” He leans closer, whispers directly into Laurens’ ear. “He should fear if you are to take the stand, Jack.”  
  
On Hamilton’s other side, Fitzgerald leans in slightly.  
  
“Hush now; Scott is called.”  
  
And so it begins.

  
Brigadier General Scott is sworn first; he questioned by Lawrence in the same vein that all the men shall be this day, where they first asked what orders they heard General Washington give Lee on the twenty-seventh, the day before the battle at the Courthouse.   
  
In his testimony, Scott adamant that he heard Washington speak of his intention to have the enemy attacked the next morning; he admits he cannot say whether Washington’s directive to attack the enemy that morn were positively ordered, but says he did not doubt its _intent_ be that Lee should attack.   
  
General Lee then stands; as he defends himself, he must also ask questions of those that are called to testify, as well as answering those presented to him. His first question put to Scott seems to attempt to force Scott into a reply that shall agree Washington’s orders were dependent on what intelligence were received, what numbers and forces the British consisted of.   
  
Scott, however, is adamant in his answer to the court. “I do not know what intelligence General Washington had, but I understood we were to have attacked the enemy at all events.”  
  
“Ha.” Hamilton makes noise under his breath. Laurens hushes him slightly; it would not do for him to be recalled from giving testimony.   
  
Lee next puts to Scott whether Washington’s orders restricted him in what manoeuvres he were allowed to undertake against the enemy. Again, however, Scott’s answer clear and sure.   
  
“I conceived you were to proceed on, and wherever you met with the enemy, to take the earliest opportunity to attack them.”  
  
Lee’s face hardens; he indicates he possesses no further questions for Scott at this junction, and Scott returns to his seat, a fairly satisfied look on his face.   
  
Certainly, Scott should like to prove Lee were incompetent that day, else his own retreat be called into question, but Laurens feels this matters not, for though perhaps the motivation imperfect, it shall still serve to see justice done.   
  
Brigadier General Wayne is called next; Laurens finds his gaze locked upon Lee as Wayne answers Lawrence’s questions. His face appears to go through a range of emotions, before settling into a cold, seething rage, though Wayne’s answers are somewhat less condemning than Scott’s.   
  
Laurens has so rarely felt such intense hatred upon beholding any, but there be something about Lee that stirs his blood to loathing. It be not only that the man commanded badly, nor that he spoke so ill of Washington, though that should anger Laurens to no end.   
  
There be just something of the man that Laurens cannot stomach, and he knows his own bias on this; yet still, he feels justified in his condemnation, for those men that suffered when Lee could not lead with any of the competence a commander ought possess.   
  
Though not so ardent in his answers as Scott, Wayne presents a similar picture; that though he were not on the direct receiving end of positive orders to attack, he felt certain the discussions undertaken meant that Lee were to attack the enemy.  
  
Lee then stands to question Wayne with the same queries he posed to Scott.   
  
Wayne regards Lee with a fair amount of indifference; Laurens wonders how much this costs him, for he knows Wayne’s true opinion of Lee, or at least has so witnessed enough to guess at it.   
  
“I understood we were to attack the enemy, at all events, and that General Washington would be near us to support us with the main army.”  
  
“If Wayne and Scott were so sure of this order,” Meade mutters angrily in Laurens’ ear. “Why then were it so difficult for Lee to grasp?”   
  
“It were not.” Laurens crosses his arms, ignores as Harrison turns around in the chair in front to make a hushing motion. “Only that he deliberately decided to disobey, and now seeks to paint that this from a collective uncertainty on Washington’s words.”  
  
“So far, he proves little.” Meade presses his lips together.   
  
“So far,” agrees Laurens. He may only hope it remains that way, for Lee’s words may twist as the snake he proven to be.   
  
Wayne’s questioning ends after a few further queries; his opinions and recollections seem to vindicate Washington, though do not condemn Lee so fervently as Laurens may have wished for.   
  
Fitzgerald, then, is called. He still wears a sling, for his injury at Monmouth, and as Laurens wishes him luck on the stand, he seems to avoid his eye.   
  
Nerves, perhaps.   
  
Fitzgerald’s nerves indeed shine clear as he addresses the court, a thing Laurens feels some sympathy for. He winces often; his shoulder likely still troubles him greatly. He is only asked one question by Lawrence, of orders he carried to Lee from Washington on the morning of the twenty-seventh. His answer is clear, and truthful, describing how His Excellency asked him to make certain Lee had communicated with his officers about what parts they might play in the attack come morn, for the closeness of the British to his position.   
  
Hamilton squeezes Fitzgerald’s uninjured shoulder as he sits again; Fitzgerald appears rather clammy.   
  
“I would rather not have to do such again,” he mutters.   
  
Hamilton, meanwhile, appears near to leaping from his chair with anticipation; Laurens knows a court where he free to unleash his talent at speaking excites his dear boy greatly, particularly as he may use his talent now to verbally eviscerate Lee.   
  
“Shall I be called?” Hamilton whispers.   
  
Laurens smiles softly. “Perhaps.”  
  
He is not, however; Meade be next.   
  
Meade stands, begins to make way to the space before the judges. He winks at Laurens as he does so; Hamilton catches such and smirks.   
  
“I think this may be enjoyable.”  
  
Meade at first questioned in the same manner as Fitzgerald, concerning the orders he carried to Lee on the morn of the controversial retreat.   
  
He answers well, Laurens thinks, especially agreeing with how Meade attempts to emphasise Lee’s indecision, his confusion, so early in the day.  
  
“During that time,” Meade is saying. “Captain Walker, one of Baron von Steuben’s aides, and Colonel Laurens, one of our office, came up, informing General Lee that the enemy had not left the ground; General Lee did not seem to credit it ‘til it were repeated frequently by Captain Walker.”  
  
At this, Lee glares at Meade, who ignores him, it seems, as his eyes catch Laurens’ instead. They glint with some satisfied mirth, and Laurens resists a smirk.   
  
Meade certainly pushes that Lee were disorientated on the field, and Laurens be glad of it, so that he knows he were not the only man to seemingly witness this ridiculousness of the day. When Lee asks pointedly whether he were observed seeming to reject or accept Washington’s orders, Meade only says that he did not observe one way or the other, only the Lee seemed annoyed and confused by what he deemed contradicting intelligence.   
  
Lee seems to grow more irate as Meade replies, glaring ferociously as Meade speaks his last response, in answer to Lee’s asking:   
  
“Did you conceive General Washington’s orders were, or the spirit of them, to bring on a general action at all events of the two whole armies?”   
  
Hamilton’s hands clench in his lap at this. “’The spirit of them’,” he murmurs angrily. “What spirit? There were orders, or there were none, and in this case, the orders were clear. This speaking of ‘the spirit’ muddies what took place, makes seem the General’s orders were mere suggestions.” With a glare Lee’s way, one that Laurens should not like to stand in the way of, lest be burned, Hamilton mutters: “I do not like his tone.”  
  
“Hamilton.” That Harrison, turned in his seat again. “I do not like your volume.” He says it with a slight smile, so Hamilton may know it a soft rebuke, but Hamilton only frowns deeper, as Meade finishes his reply to Lee.  
  
“General Washington, I think, was anxious to bring on a general engagement between the two armies.” Though Meade speaks the sentence as though he wishes not to assume Washington’s countenance, his tone says clear that he knows his thoughts to be true.   
  
Laurens must contain a laugh. The line between cheek and disrespect in the court be a thin one, but Meade walks it like the expert he be at such a subject as jesting.  
  
Meade is dismissed from the stand then, with an angered wave of Lee’s hand, and permission on the part of Lord Stirling, who then announces for Hamilton.  
  
“The Court calls Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton to speak.”   
  
With a fiery gaze at Laurens, and a hardened one in General Lee’s direction, Hamilton fairly bounds to the front of the room to be sworn in.   
  
Laurens finds he near holds his breath; almost surprised Hamilton does not let fly fists instead of words.   
  
“Did you deliver General Lee any orders from General Washington the twenty-seventh or twenty-eight of June, respecting his attack on the enemy?”   
  
Hamilton’s gaze shifts to Lee; such is the intensity of it Laurens feels any that stand nearby may be in danger of a scalding.   
  
“I wrote General Lee a letter the evening of the twenty-seventh of June, by General Washington’s order,” Hamilton begins, voice strong, and fairly measured, “A copy of which I have not; but it was conceived in the _spirit_ —” And here, perhaps a slightly unnecessary emphasis, such that beside Laurens, Meade huffs a quiet sound of amusement; further ahead, Wayne seems to attempt to control a smile.   
  
“In the spirit,” Hamilton continues. “As I understood, of the former orders that had been given by him to General Lee, as was occasioned by an apprehension—as declared to me by General Washington—that the enemy might move off either at night, or very early in the morning, and so be out of our reach.”   
  
Hamilton flicks his eyes to Laurens briefly, who attempts an encouraging nod, though he does not think Hamilton truly sees him; he be in his own world of words, that which he inhabits best of them all.   
  
“To remedy this, in case of their moving off, Lee were to watch, give the earliest intelligence of it, and skirmish with them to produce some delay, so as to give time for the rest of the troops to catch up.”   
  
Hamilton continues in this vein a little longer, answering the questions presented as thoroughly as possible. He then asked by Lee what hour it were when the letter of order sent; Lee’s aides-de-camp Captains Mercer and Edwards are also sworn in to confirm the time this letter received and acted upon, before Lee returns the force of his gaze to Hamilton.   
  
Laurens does not like the look upon Lee’s face, that Hamilton may appear some sort of dirt that ought be removed from the room. He itches to confront Lee; desperately hopes to be called, else he may attempt to settle his issue with the man some other way.   
  
“Did you conceive General Washington’s orders, or the spirit of them, to General Lee, were to attack the enemy at all events?” This question from Lawrence now.   
  
An odd looks steals over Hamilton’s face; he appears strangely uncomfortable, shifts weight from one foot to the other. His eyes dart sideways to Lee, then fix upon the floor.   
  
“I do not.” He frowns. “I cannot conceive that General Washington could mean to give orders so extremely positive, but that circumstances, which had been unforeseen, might arise, to leave the officer liberty to deviate.”  
  
Lee’s gaze upon Hamilton now is sharp; Laurens finds he digs his nails into his breeches, likely bruises the skin underneath.   
  
Why Hamilton must be so thorough with the _truth_ , when it were quite acceptable for Wayne, Scott and Meade to be satisfied by the gist of the order—  
  
Hamilton, however, suddenly grins sharply, near wickedly. “But, from everything I knew of the affair, General Washington’s intention was to fully have the enemy attacked on their march, and that the circumstances must be _very_ extraordinary and unforeseen, in order to justify not doing so, which I do not believe to be the case.”  
  
At this, Meade erupts into poorly concealed chuckles, Harrison glaring helplessly back at him. Lee goes bright red in the face, Wayne turns his head to hide a laugh, and Fitzgerald appears rather alarmed.   
  
Lawrence raises his eyebrows at Hamilton, who does appear to act contrite, but only some. Laurens does not blame him; he only speaks true to his mind and events as he saw them, and Laurens thinks he may have an even poorer hold on his own cheek if he were facing Lee himself this day.  
  
The last two questions from Lee are posed to Hamilton quickly, allowing little room for jesting or deviation, before the court is announced adjourned for the day, and the aides file out of the room, carefully avoiding the glares of Lee and his staff.

  
“I think Tilghman shall be sorry to have missed you speak, Hammie,” Meade says with a chuckle, as they mount up for the return to Ross Hall.   
  
Hamilton shrugs. “He may yet have a chance.”  
  
Laurens helps Fitzgerald mount up, then turns to Hamilton. “I am glad I did not.”  
  
“Did not what, Sir?” Meade grins down from his horse at Laurens.   
  
Laurens rolls his eyes. “Did not miss Hamilton speak.”  
  
“No,” says Meade, eyes twinkling dangerously. “I suspect you should have _hated_ to miss such.”  
  
“Did not miss Hamilton verbally haranguing poor General Lee, I think you mean.” That Fitzgerald, for he seems to have regained some cheer, now they removed from the court.  
  
“It were nothing he did not thoroughly deserve,” Laurens rebukes. In his peripheral, he sees Hamilton smile, shake his head at him, as though to say _he means it only in jest, my love._  
  
Laurens knows such, of course, but finds any sympathy for Lee abhorrent, whether spoken in jest or no.  
  
“How they even allowed you in to cause mischief, I do not know,” Harrison interjects, as he packs his travel desk into a saddle bag. “For you were not called.”  
  
“Neither were you,” Hamilton points out gleefully. “And yet you there to ensure I behaved somewhat of a gentlemen.”  
  
Harrison slaps Hamilton’s shoulder lightly as he makes to ride off, mutters sarcastically: “I there as I am His Excellency’s Military Secretary, Sir, though all in our office do seem to forget this be so. None can force you to be a gentleman.”  
  
“Ah, how could we forget you be our Old Secretary?” Meade exclaims. “I feel quite ashamed to have done so.”  
  
It is perhaps lucky Harrison already out of ear shot at such a jest as that.   
  
Meade and Fitzgerald soon follow Harrison, leaving Hamilton to wait as Laurens also mounts up.   
  
“I think,” says Laurens softly, “I were allowed in for my Father’s name.” The admission makes him feel somewhat ashamed, as he so desperately wishes at most any other time to avoid such blatant favouritism.   
  
“Hmm.” Hamilton regards him, eyes gentle. “Though I should usually dislike such a reminder of who your father be as much as you should, if Henry Laurens being President of Congress means that his son—my Jack—might watch me whenever he may please, I should make him President for ever.”  
  
“ _Hamilton_.” Laurens finds he cannot stop a laugh; it seems that Hamilton should always know what doubts plague him on his name, and though he can use such as a weapon, it also means he may offer some comfort.   
  
Hamilton shrugs playfully, flicks his reins. “It only truth; I might imagine you enjoyed watching when I so riled up.”  
  
Laurens gapes. “ _Alexander_. We are not in private quarters, Sir!”  
  
Hamilton makes a show of glancing around. “I see none close enough to listen; Lee and his men having already retreated, for they are quite practised at that.”  
  
At such brazen insult, Laurens may only laugh out loud, and hope Hamilton should only run his mouth so in his company.

  
On return to Ross Hall, Tilghman most insistent on witnessing a repeat of the goings on of the morn. He has been working alongside McHenry in the office, the both of them jealous they did not get to attend the court, and Meade is most happy to oblige on this front, acting the parts with accuracy, if not with a little more fervour than the original.   
  
“I should think you must watch your beds for knives, with such daring,” Tilghman smirks at Meade as the latter relays his own answers.   
  
Meade only grins ferociously. “If I am to watch for small knives, Hamilton ought watch for swift daggers and poison, for the manner in which he seemed to agree with Lee, and then so savagely pulled the rug out from under him.”  
  
Hamilton huffs. “I only said what I so saw.”  
  
“In a most strategic manner.” Meade flicks gaze to Laurens. “I think Laurens were most impressed.”  
  
Laurens hopes his face does not flush red at whatever insinuations Meade makes, but knows with his colouring that this a hope wished in vain.   
  
“I wonder though,” says Fitzgerald quietly from where he has slumped, hand to shoulder, wince on his face, “If General Lee should truly be so guilty on the first count as the others.”   
  
“Sir?” demands Laurens heatedly, for he has no other word he may find amongst the rage that suddenly flushes his skin.  
  
“Laurens—” warns Harrison. “This not meant in insult—”   
  
“No?” demands Laurens, ignoring Hamilton’s concerned gaze. “Then as what?”  
  
Fitzgerald sighs, shakes his head. “I only mean—the situation were certainly complicated on the morn of the battle, by numerous intelligence, confusions with orders, etcetera. I do not think Lee expressly disobeyed orders, by the way the orders were given. On the other counts though, I say he guilty.”  
  
Laurens resists the urge to clench his fists. “You cannot possibly defend—”   
  
“I do not _defend_.” Fitzgerald’s tone grows irate now also. “I only say what others will. That does not mean I think he ought not be convicted—”   
  
“Any defence of that man be defence of a coward, and I think any that would—”   
  
“Laurens,” says Harrison cautiously, sternly. “I think you would rather not finish that thought.”  
  
Laurens stops, shoulders slumping. Behind him, he feels Hamilton touch his waist very briefly, and then carefully retreat.   
  
“Aye.” He glances to Fitzgerald. “I apologise, Sir. I make no impugnation upon your character. General Lee—I do badly with any defence of that man.”  
  
Fitzgerald nods. He does not smile, but his eyes soften. “Oh, aye. In any case, we may only await the results of this court martial.”  
  
“And let us hope the result be guilty!” Meade interjects cheerfully. “But now I think our attention best turned to other matters.”  
  
“Oh, aye!” cries Tilghman. “I should turn my mind to which pretty woman I might dance with this eve!”   
  
“If any shall have you,” Meade grins. “You make many assumptions with such as that.”  
  
“ _Meade_.” Tilghman glares playfully. “I shall make certain you have no dances at all.”  
  
Laurens turns away, starts pulling out papers and ink for working. He finds he has no desire to think on the small dance Washington has decided on having at Headquarters this eve; a way for the officers and their wives to celebrate this Independence Day, as the enlisted men make merry with their rum.  
  
Hamilton sits down beside Laurens at the desk, eyes flicking to McHenry one desk over, as though to ensure his attention most definitely occupied by Meade and Tilghman’s tomfoolery.   
  
“If only I might dance with you,” Hamilton murmurs. “That might make such a frivolous thing worth it.”  
  
Laurens only turns his eyes to the pile of unopened letters. “But we may not do that, so kindly do not allow me to dream of it.”

***

Evening finds Laurens dragged from his desk against his will, and installed against the wall of the largest room in Ross Hall, now decked out appropriately for a ball, if a small one. His only consolation in having to face such circumstances be that beside him stands an equally reluctant Marquis, who surveys the proceedings with some dismay.   
  
“I think I might make great friends with this wallpaper, _mon cher_ ,” Lafayette says somewhat miserably, frown etched upon his face, as the small collection of musicians to be found strike up a tune.   
  
Laurens smiles reluctantly. “You do not care to dance? _Mon ami_ , I thought all French nobility possessed such a talent.”  
  
Lafayette makes a face, puffs his cheeks out in frustration. “ _Oui, certainement._ It were attempted that I be taught this talent, but I lack it. You heard Hamilton make fun once of my clumsiness, and though he exaggerates, he not so far from truth, _malheureusement_.”   
  
“You are lucky, then,” says Hamilton, suddenly appearing beside Lafayette, hair clearly tied back as neat as he might manage, though strands still escape his queue. “For you are married, and it is known, so you may not be bothered too insistently for dances. Laurens and I must bat off eligible women of camp who might seek to make themselves wives.”   
  
Lafayette snorts. “Ah, such poor women, if they seek to make wives to men who wish for men.”  
  
“Lafayette!” hisses Laurens, for though they at the edge of this room, and music plays, there truly not the safety for such careless words as that. His protest perhaps not as ardent as it usually may be, however, as he still stuck on what Hamilton said.   
_  
Laurens and I must bat off eligible women of camp who might seek to make themselves wives.  
_  
But Laurens…he is married. He is _married_. It clearly strikes him then, in that moment, how far beyond forgivable this entire farce has gone. It has been…what, ten months since he and Hamilton first kissed one another, in the ashes of the battle at Brandywine? Ten _months_. Ten months where Hamilton has pledged himself again and again to Laurens, openly, honestly, entirely, ten months where Laurens has failed to do the same, and yet pretended it, and suddenly, oh, _suddenly,_ he thinks that now it too late—if Hamilton may learn this fact now, he shall think so many things lies.   
  
And Laurens knows he has done this to himself, entirely out of cowardice, and if he has so wrecked what they have, he shall only have himself to blame.   
  
Such be his distraction, that he near misses Lafayette’s question to him; realises it only when Hamilton says with concern:   
  
“John?”   
  
He forces himself from the awful introspection. “Aye?”   
  
Lafayette touches his arm softly. “ _Est-ce que tu vas bien_?”   
  
Laurens blinks rapidly, nods. “ _Oui_. My apologies, it seems I quite lost the path of conversation.”  
  
Lafayette peers at him closely, but appears to accept the explanation. “I were only asking if you should know how to dance?”  
  
Laurens shrugs, manages a tight smile. “Of course; my Father thinks one quite useless in polite society without such a skill.”  
  
Hamilton’s eyes appear to be attempting to strip Laurens’ face of its covers, expose the raw emotion underneath. “Shall you dance then?”  
  
Laurens sighs. “Only if pressed.”  
  
Between then, Lafayette raises his eyebrows. “I think I know who you should prefer to dance with.”  
  
“Lafayette—” warns Laurens, but Hamilton only smirks.   
  
“Aye, certainly. Were I a lady, I know exactly which man’s eye I should wish to catch.”  
  
Laurens splutters. “ _Alexander!_ ”   
  
Lafayette snorts. “ _Mon Dieu_. We must hope our wallpaper friend here be a discrete sort of fellow, _oui_?”   
  
Hamilton laughs so loud at such that Tilghman, across the room attempting to catch some General’s daughter’s eye, casts an amused glance in their direction.

  
Laurens is eventually forced into exactly one dance, and it undertaken under duress, but that he saw clear Lafayette’s terror when asked to take a turn, and so offered himself in the spur of the moment.   
  
Lafayette’s grateful eyes follow him as he moves from the safety of the wall, and though he cherishes his dear friend, he not sure such were worth it after all.   
  
When he introduces himself, he sees his dance partner’s eyes light up at _Laurens_ , and it the only time he has ever wished he might start a conversation with _I am married_.   
  
He does not, of course, and it truly only serves to force such thoughts on matrimony and lies and unforgivable actions to the forefront of his mind, such that he misses the poor woman’s name, near begins with the wrong dance steps.   
  
The dance takes far longer than Laurens should have liked; he escapes at its conclusion perhaps rather gracelessly.   
  
It not as though his dance partner stands any chance with him; it would be crueller for him to pretend that she did.   
  
Glancing back towards where he left the Marquis, and Hamilton, he realises that though Lafayette still present, and seemingly engaged in a fairly animated conversation in French with his aide, Captain du Chesnoy, Hamilton suddenly nowhere to be seen.   
  
Laurens frowns, quickly makes his way from the dance floor, past where General Washington dances with their host, the widowed Mrs Ross—seeing the General engaged in such a graceful pastime causes a near double take—and towards Lafayette, who must spy him in his peripheral, for he tilts his head slightly towards the door, makes quick, narrowed motion to it with his eyes.   
  
Laurens takes this to mean that Hamilton has made an escape elsewhere. With a quick glance to assure none watch, nor take note, of his flight from the ball, Laurens escapes out the door also, walks briskly through the house, avoiding various different congregations of attendees as he marches quickly out into the heavy, summer night air.

  
Hamilton has barely left the hall grounds; Laurens suspects this because he were waiting for him, and not seeking to make a total escape. His assumption validated when Hamilton must spot him in the soft moonlight, for his love’s smile quirks into something far more wicked.   
  
“Ah, John. I see no woman has succeeded in stealing you from me.”  
  
Laurens shoves the guilt on marriage, on Martha, as far down as possible. “Certainly not, my dear boy. That should be absurd.”  
  
“Hmm.” Hamilton glances behind them at the hall, then out into the spread of trees surrounding headquarters. “Shall we take a walk?”   
  
Laurens thinks he has never heard _walk_ sound so close to some innuendo before, but supposes that if any may force a word into submitting to a new meaning, Hamilton the man to do it.   
  
“ _Certainement_.”   
  
As soon as they leave the eyeline of the hall behind them, Laurens feels Hamilton’s hand brush his, before their fingers entwine, squeeze tight, and Laurens thinks he might break from the strength of the sheer _wishing_ , the sheer _wanting_ that envelops his heart at such touch, for he should desire to hold only Hamilton’s hand in his for the rest of his life, and yet circumstances will make such as that utterly impossible.   
  
“You dance most elegantly,” Hamilton murmurs as they walk. “Your partner could scarce look elsewhere. _I_ could scarce look elsewhere.”   
  
Laurens huffs, snorts. “Unfortunate, then, that I have not the temperament to realise when a woman looks.”  
  
Hamilton laughs quietly. “I wish for that, John.”  
  
Laurens frowns, glances at Hamilton with some confusion. “You would wish to be indifferent to women?”  
  
“Aye,” says Hamilton. He flicks his gaze from Laurens, cheeks reddening slightly. “Then I should feel completely indifferent to marriage also, and you would cease your attempts to convince me it should be the best thing for me, after.”  
  
Laurens stops abruptly; their joined hands taut between them as Hamilton halts as well. “I do not recall ever suggesting such a thing.”  
  
Hamilton makes a face. “You do not? I recall it many times; you telling me how I might rise after the war, with a family, and a wife, and some status in society.”  
  
“Ah.” Laurens pauses. “Well, I—”   
  
“Hmm.” Hamilton interrupts with a shake of his head. “Perhaps you have not spoken of it since we properly discussed love, but the implication constant. I shall not have it, John. Matrimony should not steal my devotion for you from me.”   
  
Laurens sighs. “Is this some misplaced jealously from the dance?”  
  
Hamilton rolls his eyes, squeezes their hands tighter. “No, Sir. Well, perhaps somewhat. I just wished to remind you that I am yours, and you mine, no matter what some may say; what _you_ may say.”  
  
Laurens squeezes his eyes shut a moment, then opens them slowly. There be so much truth in this, and also so much untruth, for legally, some other has a claim upon Laurens, and he still cannot say—  
  
“Alexander…” Laurens murmurs. “I think I ought—”   
  
Hamilton turns to face him, sudden like, hands held gently like a promise between them. “I would ask you to dance with me here, Jack, now, but that I do not know the steps.”  
  
Laurens blinks, adjusts what he were about to say. “I—you know not how to dance?”  
  
Hamilton raises his eyebrows, smiles slightly. “As with fencing, I think we have established I know not the arts of a gentlemen. So it is with dancing.”  
  
Laurens regards him softly, feels his heart clench with fondness. “But we established you rather adept at fencing, I think.”  
  
Hamilton smirks, steps closer, eyes flicking upwards seductively. “We established I rather adept at teasing, in that moment, I think; I am unsure on whether that were fencing or flirtation of some kind.”   
  
Laurens swallows, casts his mind back to that day in the woods, finds his throat rather dry. “I think you right in that.”  
  
Hamilton appears rather self-satisfied; smiles like one who has some further card to play. “Though I know not the steps to the dances performed this eve, I may tell you of one dance I do know intimately well.”  
  
“Oh?” murmurs Laurens, as Hamilton lets their joined hands drop, begins to trace up Laurens’ arms, slip fingers under coat buttons, undo them slowly. “And what dance should that be?”  
  
“The one where I should know exactly how to touch you so that our music may be our pleasure.”   
  
Laurens feels his eyes widen. “My dear boy,” he murmurs, words near sticking to his throat as a rush of heated, uncontrolled desire flushes his skin.   
  
“Oh, Jack,” says Hamilton, tilting his head, pressing a gentle kiss to Laurens’ lips as he begins to remove his own coat. “Say that again.”   
  
Laurens laughs against Hamilton’s mouth, snakes his fingers up his side to settle one hand lightly against Hamilton’s throat. “My dear boy?”  
  
Hamilton steals another kiss. “ _Oui_ , but _non_. Mine, dear Jack. Call me _mine_.”  
  
Laurens feels his breath hitch, breeches feeling suddenly all that much tighter. “My Alexander. Mine.”

  
They have not the time to entirely disrobe, nor the inclination, being out of doors amongst the trees and dirt, but Laurens thinks there something strangely beautiful in the motions, slicked fingers and panted moans mingling with the sounds of wind through drying branches, groans and murmured endearments carried alongside the birdsong of night hunters.   
  
There is an ethereal beauty to Hamilton too, sweat-glistened throat exposed to the moonlight, dampened hair loose among the leaves.   
  
Afterwards, lying spent among the grass and flowers, Laurens watches Hamilton’s chest rise and fall, a soft smile upon his face as he moves his fingers in a gentle swirling motion on the exposed skin above Hamilton’s hipbone.   
  
“I think,” says Hamilton softly, eyes shining in the dark. “That it the greatest tragedy a man may be gifted with such an abundance of love for another, and yet be prevented from ever speaking of it.”  
  
Laurens only sighs, turns his gaze away. “I think,” he responds. “That the tragedy be in it being marked a sin, when surely there no other sin that may feel so pure.”   
  
“That,” says Hamilton decisively, “Should be exactly why I think it not a sin at all; marked only in that manner by other men.”   
  
Laurens feels a soft hand on his cheek, pushing it insistently back towards Hamilton, so that Hamilton might meet his eye earnestly again.   
  
“Dear Jack, do you not see? I love you, and I think that all that matters.”  
  
And it is, and it should be, and perhaps if Laurens were some other man, it would be, but that it is not so simple, and it is not all that matters, and Laurens has a daughter and a wife across the sea, whom he shall one day be expected to re-join, and all he may imagine is how Hamilton may look when he learns of this, how his eyes might scream _betrayal_ , how his gaze might feel as ice, how Laurens shall most certainly lose him entirely.   
  
“I think we ought to go back to the hall before we are missed too grievously.”  
  
Hamilton blinks, frowns, draws back slightly. “John—”   
  
Laurens forces himself to sitting, casts for his vest and coat. “You have a twig in your hair, Alexander,” is all he says in reply.

  
They walk back to Ross Hall in silence. Laurens can feel the weight of Hamilton’s gaze, but refuses to meet his eye, no matter how insistent it may be. They glance over one another once more before they enter, in the practised manner they have now developed over the months of stolen moments and illicit liaisons, checking for missed buttons, rumpled fabric.  
  
Once inside the hall, in contrast to the quiet of the trees, the sound of the lively music and frenzied chatter feels near overwhelming; Laurens casts around desperately for Lafayette, but sees him nowhere.   
  
Instead, he feels a light tap upon his shoulder, spins to find Meade casting stern gaze over he and Hamilton, eyes narrowed.   
  
“I shall not ask where you were, nor what you were doing, for the sake of my own sanity, and also my regrettably vivid imagination, Sirs.”  
  
Hamilton snorts. “Oh, aye. Whatever should assist you, Meade.”  
  
Meade only shakes his head, presses his lips together. “I would pick your timing more discretely, perhaps; the General has been looking for you.”  
  
Laurens feels his eyes widen with sudden worry. “What did you so say?”  
  
Meade huffs. “Well, I could hardly relay my true suspicions; I only said you appeared to have taken a walk.”  
  
Laurens sighs. “Thank you.”  
  
“Hmm.” Meade shakes his head again. “The General said you both appear to enjoy taking walks.”  
  
Laurens feels himself pale. “You do not think—”   
  
Meade makes a face. “Nay, else I doubt we be having such a conversation as this. I simply—” He trails away, gazes at Laurens thoughtfully, raises his eyebrows. “Laurens, you appear to have a twig in your hair.”  
  
Laurens flushes so hard he thinks if he were back in Valley Forge, he may produce enough warmth from his skin to heat the garret.

***

_Provost House  
Ho-Ho-Kus, New Jersey   
July 10th – 14th 1778_

When Laurens wakes each morn over the course of the days which encompass General Lee’s trial, he expects that he may rise with a summons to court.   
  
What he does not expect, on the morning of the tenth, the first morning they find themselves in new Headquarters near Paramus, where the rest of the army encamps, is to be woken by Tilghman shaking him, declaring loudly:   
  
“The General requires us for a walk.”  
  
Still half in slumber, McHenry stirring wearily beside him (for Meade waggled his eyebrows so thoroughly when Hamilton and Laurens attempted to share, that Laurens thought that course best abandoned), Laurens blinks in confusion.   
  
“A…walk?”   
  
“Aye!” answers Tilghman cheerfully, dragging the sheets from them rather harshly. “A walk.”  
  
McHenry groans. “Might you be more specific, Sir?”   
  
Tilghman only grins. “We are going to Paramus for various matters amongst the army, and the General wishes a walk first.”  
  
“A walk to—?” Laurens asks, grimacing as he rubs his eyes.   
  
“Passaic Falls, I think,” Tilghman replies, throwing Laurens’ coat at his face unceremoniously.   
  
“Huh.” McHenry sits up. “That should prove an interesting diversion.”  
  
“Indeed,” says Tilghman. “Now, up!”   
  
Laurens and McHenry set to rising slowly; McHenry swearing rather creatively, and surprisingly, when he has troubles locating his cravat.

  
Descending downstairs, Laurens soon realises Lafayette also joining them on this jaunt, and what a pleasant thing, that he might spend the morn in the company of his closest friends, and Washington’s military family, without thinking too long on battles, or British, or court martials, or thoughts of after.   
  
It seems a great relief to his mind, that he might have this one morn to ignore such things, even if only for a small while.   
  
Harrison and Fitzgerald be the only men not accompanying them; Harrison as he insists at least one man must remain at work in the office, Fitzgerald for his wounded shoulder still causing pain and difficulty.   
  
It is a seven mile walk to the falls. The aides chat happily amongst themselves, though Gibbs and some of his life guards remain quietly vigilant, staring out through the brush and trees as the party progresses.   
  
Laurens walks some with Meade, some with Tilghman, and some with Lafayette, as Hamilton engaged in a lengthy discussion with the General for a good portion of the way. Laurens does not begrudge this, and it not as though they may discuss such private matters as they should be inclined towards in the company of the others anyhow.   
  
Still, eventually Hamilton drifts further back to where Laurens now walks beside McHenry, as Lafayette monopolising the General’s conversation.   
  
“I think I find myself glad we were awoken so early,” McHenry smiles, wiping sweat from his face. “Else we may have expired before we reached the falls.”  
  
Hamilton only grins. “Such heat as this is nothing, truly.”  
  
Laurens pokes him in the side. “For some such gentlemen, perhaps.”   
  
Hamilton winks. “Or some that are not gentlemen.”   
  
Of course, the innuendo escapes McHenry, a thing Laurens finds himself constantly grateful for, on account of Meade’s relentless mouth.   
  
“I think you quite the gentlemen, Hamilton, no matter how you might pretend otherwise,” McHenry says sincerely.   
  
Hamilton seems much surprised. “Well, Sir. Thank you.”  
  
Laurens finds himself glad the animosity between them when first they met at Valley Forge seems quite evaporated now. McHenry appears truly a decent man.

  
They hear the falls long before they see them, but when they do see them, _oh_ , Laurens thinks he has scarce witnessed nature so incredible.   
  
The falls are much larger than Laurens should have envisioned; the sound of them near to thunder. As they approach, the spray can be felt against the skin, soft and cooling after such a walk. Where the water collides with various rock shelves and grooves, as well as where it makes impact with the river, the spray so thin and misty it almost as though the waterfall exhibits its own smoke, as if it some miraculous joining of water and fire.   
  
Towards the base of the falls, where the sun shines through the mist, there a perfect, miniature rainbow, so clear that each individual colour may be made out, and lord but Laurens suddenly wishes he had packed with him his sketching things.   
  
“ _Mon Dieu,_ ” breathes Lafayette. “ _C’est tres beau_.”   
  
“ _Oui_ ,” agrees Laurens. “It is.”   
  
Regarding the waterfall, feeling the cooling spray against his face, Laurens thinks it has been a long while since he were so empty of thoughts but those of lightness, of happiness.   
  
Hamilton is gazing at the waterfall, head tilted. He shivers slightly.   
  
“It sounds as though a storm,” he murmurs quietly.   
  
“A most beautiful one,” Laurens replies, eyes drawn back towards the watery tower.   
  
Hamilton sighs. “I am not so sure any storm is beautiful. They cause only destruction.”  
  
Laurens frowns, turns to face Hamilton. “You do not think the waterfall is beautiful?”   
  
Hamilton gazes at him tenderly. “Aye, it is. It is only the sound—” He shivers again. “Well. I think the face I gaze at now far more beautiful anyhow.”  
  
Laurens feels his eyes widen, his cheeks flush.   
  
Beside him, Lafayette snorts. “ _Mes chers imbéciles_ , cease tugging at the strings of my heart. Also, have some sense, _Messieurs_.”   
  
“You ask us for sense?” Hamilton snorts. “I know that I, for one, possess little of that.”  
  
Laurens grins widely, laughs, turns towards where the other aides and Washington begin to seek out a good tree to sit under.   
  
“We must not let them steal the best shade. Not after that walk.”

  
Washington eventually settles under a large, spreading oak, where they may still see the spray, but not feel it, still hear the impressive thundering, but not so they may unable to hear one another speak.   
  
Each aide brings out their canteens, with Meade and Tilghman then producing cold ham, and biscuit, from somewhere within in the depths of their travel bags.   
  
“I think this quite the proper picnic, now,” Meade says, with some mark of self-congratulation, and the General laughs loudly.   
  
Laurens has so rarely heard the General laugh in recent months—indeed, none of the aides have, if the shared looks of disbelief and joy should mean anything.  
  
“I thought we all might do well with some time away from the office, Gentlemen, from letters and papers and worries,” General Washington says. “And a certain court martial.”  
  
“ _Oui_ ,” Lafayette agrees, gazing at the General fondly. “I think you quite right, _Monsieur_.”   
  
Washington then leans back against the tree they have chosen. “I know that Hamilton and Laurens both be fond of a walk when a break is required; I thought the rest of us might try the same.”  
  
Laurens thinks, suddenly, that his cheerfulness might dissipate after all. Though he knew what Meade so said, he did not truly think the General took an accounting of when he and Hamilton escaped the office.  
  
Hamilton, however, seems less plagued by such thoughts. Or better at functioning through them.   
  
“Oh, aye, Sir. Sometimes a walk should be just what is required.”  
  
Laurens thinks it not a coincidence that Meade then chokes on the contents of his canteen.

  
They sit for perhaps a quarter of an hour in company, exchanging light and easy conversation, such that it may seem easy to forget that Washington their Commander-in-Chief, and not simply another of their friends—a fact Laurens suspects Washington himself just as glad for, if the easing to his usually tense shoulders be of any indication.   
  
Lafayette keeps up a steady stream of charming observation, his English so very much improved from when he and Laurens were first acquainted.   
  
Meade and Tilghman drift off once the food is finished; Laurens suspects they may wish to dip a foot in the river.   
  
As Lafayette and Washington appear most happily engaged in talk, with an occasional aside from Hamilton, Laurens decides to observe the falls a little closer, imagines how he might sketch this from memory, if given the chance to do so. He thinks he should like the keep this small remembrance of happiness, as he somehow doubts he should have much opportunity for it again.   
  
He is attempting to imprint memory of the rainbow’s colours, when he suddenly startled by a hand on his shoulder.   
  
“John?”  
  
Laurens smiles. “You have finished pointing out the follies of our Congress to the General?”  
  
Hamilton huffs, sits himself down beside Laurens. Their shoulders touch, but not in a way that might seem improper to the casual observer.   
  
“Lafayette regales him with some story or another of the French court; I think I may be excused from listening.”   
  
Laurens nods, leans ever so slightly into where they touch.   
  
Hamilton clears his throat. “I…may have overstepped the mark, in going through your things, but I know how you disbelieve your artistic talent, and I—”   
  
Laurens frowns, turns his head towards Hamilton. “You did what, Sir?”   
  
Hamilton sighs, rummages through his travel bag, before sheepishly handing Laurens his sketch book, his case of drawing things.   
  
Laurens stares. “Hamilton—”  
  
Hamilton winces. “I apologise, I only thought perhaps you may have a chance—”  
  
Laurens blinks rapidly to discourage any tears that may gather, stares back at the waterfall, thinks that he now has means to capture this perfect moment after all.   
  
“Thank you,” he whispers.   
  
A slow smile steals over Hamilton’s face. “Aye. Well, I…you are most welcome, my dear.”  
  
Laurens opens the case rapidly, begins to sketch as fast as possible, so as to have some rough image he may work on further later, since he suspects them have little time left here.   
  
“Truly, Alexander, thank you. If none else were here, I should kiss you so hard it would steal your breath.”  
  
Hamilton chuckles. “I shall hold you to that promise some other time hence, then.”

***

On Monday thirteenth June, Laurens arises from bed with purpose, makes way to the office filled with nervous anticipation, with determination, with an ardent desire to ensure he aid in the disgracing of one General Lee, for today he has finally been called to provide his testimony to the court. It were getting so that he near wondered whether Lee should have forced some removal of him from proceedings, but it seems that, _thank the lord_ , this not the case.   
  
Hamilton and Meade also stand with jittery intention in the office, clearly annoying Harrison’s peace of mind, for he scolding them, if lightly, when Laurens enters.   
  
“Ah!” cries Meade. “And now we all three here.”  
  
“I thank merciful God for that,” Harrison says crossly. “Now you may go aggravate General Lee instead of I. A far more worthy target, I think.”   
  
Hamilton and Meade are also called again; Laurens thinks it likely they finally reach discussion of the events surrounding the retreat. He is pleased Hamilton may accompany him, for he should like to know he there, watching, assessing, supporting.   
  
“I fear their wit be lost on Lee,” Tilghman sighs. “I think I should appreciate it far more, yes?”   
  
Harrison rolls his eyes. “You are not called, Sir, and you shall remain here, at work, as all the rest of us shall.”  
  
Laurens chuckles; it appears Tilghman has been angling for leave to attempt entering the court to watch.   
  
“Never fear!” Meade calls back gleefully, as they three leave the current headquarters. “I shall regale you with our successful wit when we make our triumphant return.”

  
“Are you nervous, Laurens?” Hamilton asks quietly, as they ride to the local house of a judge being used for the court martial in Paramus.   
  
Laurens thinks on it. “Nay, I do not believe so. In this sort of situation, I think I may ordinarily be, somewhat, perhaps. But such do I believe in Lee’s guilt, I do not find myself doubting my abilities at all.”

  
Laurens is called first of the three aides; as he swears upon the Bible, he finds himself full of that same feeling as when battle approaches, skin feeling pulled taut over adrenalin filled veins, mind clear and certain of its one and only goal: to _fight_.   
  
In this fight, however, only words may be his weapons, and though he less talented in such an arena than Hamilton, he knows he shall do battle to the best of his abilities, so that General Lee may be exposed for the incompetent coward he is.   
  
“What were the strength of the corps under the command of General Lee, the twenty-eight of June?” Lawrence asks.   
  
Laurens locks eyes with General Lee— “To the best of my knowledge, five thousand men”—and the battle of wits in this court room begins.   
  
  
Laurens first called to describe how he came to be alongside Lee, mingled in with his troops and command, and he does so as accurately as he may, gaze fixed intently upon first General Lord Stirling, and then upon Lee, who stubbornly gazes down at his notes, as though he wishes to deny Laurens the satisfaction of seeing the effect of his words.   
  
“I addressed myself to General Lee, and informed him of what I had seen of the enemy; he replied that his intelligence had been so contradictory that he was exceedingly embarrassed—”   
  
Lee makes some angered noise, though remains silent when Lord Stirling’s gaze turns upon him.   
  
Laurens thinks he hears Hamilton chuckle lowly as he continues; may not look up and meet his eye else grin sharp like, unprofessional.   
  
“We had received a visit from Lieutenant Colonel Fitzgerald, by his Excellency General Washington’s order, as he desired to know how matters were proceeding in our quarter. General Lee hesitated in answer, and when Fitzgerald pushed for reply, General Lee said he really did not know what to say.”  
  
Lee’s face begins to threaten turning red, his eyes narrowing upon his notes, as Laurens ploughs onwards in his describing the retreat; makes sure not to mince words and allow Lee any mercy in how disorganised the entire venture were.   
  
He describes how General Oswald were without infantry protection for his artillery, whether Lee made proper attempt to attack the enemy, whether he instructed any in that matter at all.  
  
“When General Lee ordered the troops to retreat,” Lawrence questions. “Did he mention any place to retreat to?”   
  
Laurens must restrain himself, keep his tone even, for this the line of questioning he has been so eagerly awaiting.   
  
“He did not, in my hearing.”  
  
Lee’s eyes narrow, but he remains staring stubbornly downwards. Perhaps it childish, but Laurens desperately wishes to provoke him to temper, so see him stirred, to prove his temperament unfit.   
  
“Were the orders you heard General Lee give the twenty-eighth of June, given distinct and clear?”   
  
Laurens pauses, glances quick to meet Hamilton’s eye. Hamilton is sitting bolt upright in his chair, gaze locked upon Laurens’ face.   
  
Laurens breathes out slowly. “I thought General Lee seemed to be a good deal embarrassed, and that his orders were indistinct.”  
  
At these words, General Lee finally looks up. He says nothing, but his eyes lock upon Laurens with such intense hatred, that Laurens thinks if Lee were armed, he would be dead.   
  
He is near satisfied by such, but not quite.  
  
He then answers further questions on the manner of the retreat, the disorganisation, the lack of a proper rear-guard, the huddle of men which one General observed to Lee would have made them a easy target for enemy grape-shot.   
  
Several questions then ask of the manner of intelligence, the difference in intelligence, what intelligence Laurens relayed Lee, and so on and so forth.   
  
Finally, _finally_ , General Lee himself stands to question Laurens. He stands almost too close, eyes hard and glinting and poisonous.   
  
Laurens must resist a sneer; flicks eyes to Hamilton whose face is twisted in some awful expression of dislike and revulsion.  
  
“Did you impute my _embarrassment_ ,” Lee grinds out, “To my uneasiness, by having been counteracted by officers under my command, to the contradictory intelligence I received, or to my want of a personal tranquillity of mind?”   
  
Laurens stares resolutely. He knows Lee attempts to twist his answers, as he twisted poor Lafayette’s brilliance several days past, so that Lee’s behaviour may seem accounted for, by intelligence, by circumstance, by necessity.   
  
Laurens _shall not have it_.   
  
“I imputed it to want of presence of mind.”   
  
There be total silence in the room a moment, but it not peaceful silence; it the sort that grates under skin, makes air sharp as blooded cuts, causes teeth to grind in discomfit, men to shift as though in preparation for a blow.   
  
Then—  
  
“Sir, you _dare imply_ —” Lee begins, voice raised, fists rising as though to strike Laurens, face reddening with rage.   
  
“General, you shall control yourself in this court!” yells General Lord Stirling, and _there_.   
  
Now, Laurens is satisfied.   
  
He steps back, waits calmly.   
  
He feels Hamilton’s gaze at his back, dagger like.   
  
“Were you ever in an action before?” Lee finally asks, voice low and hard as struck flint.   
  
Laurens only raises his chin. “I have been in several actions; I did not call that an action, as there was no action previous to the retreat.”

  
Hamilton gives evidence next, and does so just as well as that first day, answering things in a succinct and hardened manner—“General Lee seemed to be under a hurry of mind; he did not advise General Washington of the retreat, to my knowledge”—and Meade the same, also answering Lee did not keep Washington abreast of developments, that Lee himself even said the troops were in confusion.   
  
None, however, provoke quite the auspicious rage that Laurens so did.

  
“Dear God,” says Meade as they leave, make to mount up. “Were you trying to provide the court with a further charge for Lee, Laurens?”  
  
Laurens frowns. “A further charge?”  
  
“Of murder,” Meade clarifies dryly. “He seemed awful close to an attempt at you.”  
  
“Ha,” mutters Hamilton. “As if he should have the gut to even try.”  
  
Meade hums. “I do not know, Hamilton. Laurens were the most direct in insinuating against Lee’s honour.”  
  
“I said nothing that were not true,” Laurens replies shortly. “And I think I only expose what sort of man he be.”  
  
Meade shakes his head. “I do not disagree; I only say watch to for knives whilst we yet share camp with the man.”  
  
“You think him so low he should not even duel?” Hamilton says incredulously. “When you so warned me of knives, I thought you only jested.”  
  
Meade glares darkly. “I were only jesting then; I do not jest now.”  
  
Laurens shakes his head. “I think you worry overly; in any case, I would certainly shoot the man if I could.”  
  
“I think not,” says Hamilton. “That is, I would prefer you did not.”  
  
Meade, atop his horse, rolls his eyes. “And I would prefer we move this conversation swiftly on, before my mind decides to remind me of some things I have witnessed between you.”  
  
“ _Meade_ ,” splutters Laurens, as Hamilton only laughs uproariously.

  
When they arrive back at headquarters, there seems some flurry of activity; Harrison appears to be drowning under paper orders, McHenry apparently absent from duties as he checks Fitzgerald’s health. Tilghman gleefully greets them as Meade relays Laurens’ testimony.   
  
“I think our Laurens near managed himself murdered!”  
  
Tilghman’s eyes widen. “Surely not! Laurens, what say you?”  
  
Laurens frowns. “I spoke only truth. There were nothing unjustified in my statement.”  
  
“No,” says Meade. “But the manner—”   
  
“I call it masterful,” refutes Hamilton. “And I say it required.”  
  
“You would, Sir,” mutters Meade.   
  
Tilghman gives him an odd look. “In any case, I see Laurens still lives, and that a relief to our entire office, I think.”  
  
Meade sighs. “One might think so, but my long suffering mind wonders.”  
  
Poor Tilghman appears even more puzzled; Hamilton is making frenzied motions at Meade to be quiet, else some vaguely threatened action of pain may occur.  
  
“Hush!” declares Harrison loudly over the ridiculousness. “Tilghman, Meade; this may wait. Laurens, General Washington wished to see you as soon as you returned.”  
  
Laurens stares. “Oh?”   
  
Harrison nods. “Vice Admiral d’Estaing and his French fleet have finally made landing on our shores, north of here. I suspect it about that.”  
  
Laurens suddenly feels a horrible, sinking feeling, the triumphant emotions post the court martial fading. He thinks he may know what the General requires, and it shall likely mean an extended absence.

***

Laurens’ prediction is proved correct, which means he finds himself arisen early next morn, travel bags packed and horse saddled, letter of introduction to d’Estaing from Lafayette tucked securely into one coat pocket, the beginnings of his sketch of the waterfall (and Hamilton) in another.   
  
Washington desires him to meet with d’Estaing, use his French to act the part of translator between d’Estaing and General Sullivan, for Washington hopes Sullivan’s fight in New England shall be the one d’Estaing’s fleet will assist.   
  
Laurens told by the General that he needed for his French; this is true, of course, though Tilghman also possesses French, near as good. Truthfully, Laurens also his father’s son, and that likely of equal significance to their cause, and d’Estaing’s favour.   
  
Laurens stares at headquarters wistfully. He awoke early so as to not arrive too late, and to avoid too many lengthy farewells.   
  
He should know, however, that Hamilton would never allow such to pass, for a familiar, beloved, fiery headed man quietly opens the front door of Provost House, heads towards Laurens.   
  
Laurens smiles gently. “Alexander.”  
  
Hamilton huffs. “You think to leave without proper farewell?”  
  
Laurens shakes his head. “I knew you would come.”  
  
“Perhaps I ought not to have.”  
  
“Aye, but then you would not have seen me before I departed.”  
  
“Well.” Hamilton sighs, holds a hand out to Laurens, who grasps it tightly. “I imagined myself sent away so many times, I near forgot it might be I left behind.”   
  
Laurens squeezes Hamilton's hand; with his other hand, he tugs on the ends of Hamilton’s unbound hair softly. “Aye. And I shall miss you dreadfully.” He pauses. “Although, perhaps this may grant you leave to meet others.”  
  
“John—” Hamilton’s tone holds heavy warning, and Laurens relents.   
  
“I jest,” he murmurs, but he does not. Not entirely.   
  
“Hmm,” is all Hamilton makes as reply. “Well. I suppose I ought not keep you, when duty so requires you.”  
  
“No,” says Laurens. He drops his hand from Hamilton’s hair. “I suppose not.”  
  
Hamilton swallows, withdraws his hand, then reaches upwards, presses both palms to Laurens’ cheeks. “Stay safe, my Jack, and ride swift. I should not like to be long parted from you.”  
  
Laurens feels the same, of course, most _desperately_ , but the more this war continues, the more he realises Hamilton must learn to live without him, as much as it should break his own heart completely, for there be no room for love such as theirs in _after_.   
  
“I am sure it shall not be long.”  
  
Hamilton frowns. “We always say such, and it is never correct. Perhaps we ought say that it shall be long, and then it might be swift.”  
  
Laurens huffs a small laugh. “God, Alexander. Long or short, I shall miss you.”  
  
Hamilton leans up, presses a gentle kiss, soft and sweet, before deepening it, pressing hands to Laurens’ waist, forcing their chests flush.   
  
Then Hamilton pulls away, rests his forehead on Laurens’ chest. “Stay safe, Jack. If not for your own sake, then for mine.”  
  
“Aye,” whispers Laurens.   
  
Hamilton pulls himself away then, posture rigid, face miserable. He turns from Laurens and strides back towards the house with nary a backwards glance. The set of his shoulders reveals why this may be so:   
  
If he were to look back, it may be too much for either of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this fic, even when such long delays happen :D When I finally finish it, its gonna feel so weird!
> 
> Historical Disclaimer time: the first day of the trial, Laurens was probably not present, because he wasn’t called. However ~artistic license~ folks. I wanted to show the beginning of the Court martial, and without Laurens miraculously there, I couldn’t xD 
> 
> The dialogue in the court martial scenes is mostly taken from the transcript of the actual trial. I tweaked some, and condensed some, and removed some, bc Hamilton really was one wordy little shit xD If you’ve got the time, I recommend giving it a read. I didn’t have space to include Lafayette’s testimony, but it’s golden, and filled with sass!
> 
> Also, we can thank McHenry’s journal for the lovely waterfall picnic; I know Lafayette, McHenry and Hamilton were there for sure, but I added the other aides for some wholesome military fam fun :D 
> 
> Historical sources if you’re interested:   
> -“Proceedings of a General Court Martial for the trial of Major-General Lee” (Laurens is misspelt as ‘Lawrence’)   
> https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=loc.ark:/13960/t73t9z740&view=1up&seq=9   
> -“Itinerary of General George Washington from June 15, 1775 to December 23, 1783” https://www.jstor.org/stable/20083389   
> -“General Orders 4 July 1778” https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/03-16-02-0020   
> -“Journal of a March, a Battle, and a Waterfall. By Major James McHenry, Secretary to His Excellency General Washington” (McHenry’s journal)  
> https://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/bcf4e50c-cbdf-6423-e040-e00a18061eb6#/?uuid=bcf4e50c-cbdf-6423-e040-e00a18061eb6


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